


Kindness is a Choice

by EverythingNarrative



Series: World War Etheria [5]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: AU, Abuse, Alcohol, Canon Rewrite, Cults, Gen, Language, Logistics, Magic and Science, Military, Mind Crontol, Nobledark, Permanent Injury, Psychological Truama, Smoking, War, Worldbuilding, rational
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 97,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingNarrative/pseuds/EverythingNarrative
Summary: The world prison lies broken.Armies of light descend from above.Rebels conspire in the dark.The cat returns.Life is Seldom Gentle, But—
Relationships: Adora & Bow & Entrapta (She-Ra), Adora & Bow & Glimmer (She-Ra), Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora & Mara (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra), Catra & Entrapta (She-Ra), Catra & Glimmer (She-Ra), Catra & Melog (She-Ra), Darla | Mara's Ship/Entrapta (She-Ra), Entrapta/Mara (She-Ra), Perfuma/Scorpia (She-Ra)
Series: World War Etheria [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923616
Comments: 68
Kudos: 83





	1. We Lost, What's Next?

Adora sits down. She is unhurt; the injuries she sustained in the crash on Beast Island were all undone in their escape from it. She is tired, in her bones.

It is too much. This year will be the end of her at this rate.

Netossa stands by Adora, rather than be anywhere near Shadow Weaver — who is discussing in hushed tones some magical minutiae or other with Castaspella.

The few remaining crew of the operation are packing up the camp.

Netossa calls. “King Micah, it’s Netossa.”

“ _Why, Princess; I haven’t seen you since your ascension. But — that we can discuss later. What is it?_ ”

“The Sky. It’s the off-world Horde. Adora managed to stop the Heart of Etheria, but we lost She-Ra in the process.”

“ _That is a loss. And yes, your lovely wife drew the same conclusion about the sky. You two should re-join us as soon as you can._ ”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Ah, one last thing, Shadow Weaver is here.”

“ _I am aware of her status as an ally-of-last-resort. And that my sister is with you also. Say hi to her for me._ ”

“Good. Will do.”

Adora looks up. “We should get Bow to pick us up.”

Netossa looks up. “You think it’s wise?”

Adora shrugs. “Netossa, I can’t anymore. This is too much.” She looks at her hands.

“Shut up.”

“What?”

Netossa kneels down in front of Adora. “Listen. What made She-Ra so great wasn’t some shape-shifting weapon, or that she was eight feet tall and hot as hell.” She taps Adora’s temple. “It was that brilliant tactician in the red jacket. I’ve done this for a decade, and you just came in and proved yourself twice as brilliant at your worst as I could hope to be at my best.”

“You really think so?” Adora says, and a tear rolls down her cheek.

Netossa wipes it away. “I’ll be proud to call you my Commander any day. She-Ra or no.” Then she pulls Adora into a hug, and that happens to be pretty much exactly what she needs right now.

* * *

Bow returns to the Swift Wind, dejected. He lets Emily take the speeder to the vehicle bay, and heads to the control center.

“Good news,” Entrapta says. “The Genesis Protocol _should_ have started by now. Or barring that, at least an invasion-defense protocol.”

“Adora made it?” Bow asks.

“The evidence would indicate it,” Entrapta says. “We should head back to the Crystal Castle and check. The low-orbit presence of the off-world Horde is worrying, but Swift Wind is equipped for covert operations; in addition to the active camouflage, there’s a cloaking device capable of obscuring our heat signature.”

“How do you know all this? You can’t have just read up on all that right now, or even when we flew,” Bow says.

“Oh, that’s my Runestone power. I know things.”

Bow nods. “A bit like Peekablue?”

“The Hyperlens? Sure, but not as elegant. The Sky Stone is ‘just’ a library, not a prediction engine.”

Bow shakes his head. “So; flight plan?”

“Low and subsonic. Keep it under two-hundred fathoms.”

Bow puts on the mask and gloves, and they take off.

* * *

Adora calls Bow. “Hey,” she says when he picks up.

“Hey,” Bow says. “You’ve got both of us.”

“It’s done. The Heart of Etheria can’t be activated anymore. Light Hope is gone, and… So is She-Ra. For good this time.”

“We lost Glimmer,” Bow says, somber.

“And Hordak,” Entrapta adds.

“And… And Catra, I guess,” Bow adds.

“How? What do you mean _lost?_ ” Adora asks.

“There was a teleportation event,” Entrapta says. “Long-range. Interstellar; meaning to another star.”

“Shit,” Adora says. “Bow are you okay?”

“I have to be; I’m flying. You?”

“Netossa’s with me,” Adora says.

Beside Adora, Netossa mimes ’ hi.’

“— She says hi.”

“Listen,” Bow says. “We’ll come pick you up, but we have to go slow to stay hidden.”

Adora nods. “Yeah. See you.”

* * *

Adora takes the chance to get some sleep. Castaspella helps her with a spell, but her rest is fitful and full of… Pain and empty dome-shaped rooms.

Netossa wakes her gently, which is all it takes for her to jerk awake.

The Swift Wind hangs above them, a pylon extended to allow the four of them to embark. The other crew has already gone out with the horses.

Adora heads into the control center, and finds Bow there, with Entrapta.

Bow gets out of his seat, and meets Adora halfway in a fierce hug.

They stand there for a while, and it is only then that Adora notices that Bow is silently crying.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Adora says. “We all miss her.”

“ _This is all my fault,_ ” he says, and buries his face in her shoulder.

“Shut up,” she says. “We all fucked up here. Don’t play hero and take it all on your shoulders, that’s my job.”

They stand there together for a little while longer. Adora sheds a tear too.

The moment passes, and Bow composes himself.

“So,” Entrapta says, “I didn’t know how long you were going to take, but I programmed the flight path parameters; we can get the autopilot to fly us home now, same way we flew in.”

“Then do.”

Entrapta gestures, and the Swift Wind takes off, flying low and cloaked.

“We need to go save Glimmer,” Bow says.

“Yeah,” Adora concurs.

“Adora?” Entrapta says.

“Yeah?”

“You promised you’d find some way to reunite me with Hordak.”

Adora looks at her. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? Good thing they went to the same place. That’ll make it easier to rescue both of them.”

“So… You’ll help me rescue him?”

Adora goes over to Entrapta’s chair, and holds out a hand.

“I appreciate that you want to shake my hand; it’s a gesture of an accord,” Entrapta says. “I don’t like handshakes unless I’m wearing gloves.”

“All right,” Adora says. “But yes, we have an accord.”

Entrapta tears up a little bit. “Thanks.”

* * *

They arrive in Brightmoon with the bad news. You don’t tell a long lost father that his opportunity to be reunited with his daughter has been taken from him over a communicator link.

He takes it well, all things considered. Merely taking a moment to stand and look out the window and brood. “So. No She-Ra, and we’re down a Runestone Wielder,” he says eventually.

His gaze goes to the sky, through the tall window. “I’ve been speaking to Spinnerella and my generals about the developments in the last month,” he says. “Whatever the case may be, I think we can assume that our new enemy will have total air superiority very shortly. A conventional war will simply not be possible.”

“Sir,” Adora says.

“Yes?”

“We may be able to copy Horde technology to our advantage,” she says. “Entrapta can reverse-engineer Hordak’s portal design; or we can directly just steal one. Using the Swift Wind she can kick-start Brightmoon’s own fabrication of First-Ones tech. We could outfit the army with First-Ones weaponry, and decentralize it using portal travel. Against an overwhelming enemy our best bet is to become so small and fragment that we cannot be crushed all at once.”

“Snows might be able to help with that,” Frosta adds. “We have some experience being invaded by the Horde and not rolling over immediately.”

“Ouch,” Mermista says.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” Frosta says.

Mermista ruffles the girls hair affectionately.

Micah strokes his beard. “Sounds like an actionable plan,” he says. “Better than what my generals might be able to come up with. How long will it take to get this plan going?”

Adora looks at Entrapta. “Three weeks. Maybe five,” she says. “Depends on how much training the technical personnel needs.”

“And King Micah?” Adora says.

He turns to face her.

“Once that is set into motion, Bow, Entrapta, and myself are going to take the Swift Wind and rescue Glimmer.”

Micah nods. “I can’t stop you,” he says.

Adora nods.

He keeps looking at her, Bow, and Entrapta.

“Your Majesty?” Adora says. "Shall we go ahead with the plan?

“Was that a question?” he says with a gentle smile. “Mermista, Frosta,” he continues.

“Your Majesty,” Mermista says.

“I’m going to put you two in charge of handling Candila and Apieria. We need those two convinced that it is in their best interests to break their alliance with the Fright Zone Horde, now that Chancellor Hordak and his best general are missing. Once we get those fabricators — was that it? — up and running, bribe them with those.”

“Yes, sir!” Frosta says.

“Netossa,” he continues. “Please reach out to this Huntara character. And then you and Spinnerella will get a hold of Princess Perfuma and Princess Scorpia; we need ideally to insert her as the rightful ruler of the Fright Zone before we all need to go into exile.”

“Yes sir,” Netossa says.

“In both of these endeavors, I suspect the appearance of Princess Entrapta of Dryl, and her testimony that indeed Chancellor Hordak and General Catra are missing, and that she has turned to the Alliance, will provide strong argument.”

There’s a round of applause.

“All right, people, look alive. We have a kingdom to… Well, by the sound of it, ‘fracture,’ and a war against an insurmountable foe to win.”

* * *

“My liege,” Spinnerella says after the rest have all filed out. “I can’t be the only one of us who sees your pain.”

“My family is gone,” he says. “That is enough to break any man, I should think.”

“And you, my liege?”

“I shall persevere. I have my duty to the subjects.”

Spinnerella puts a hand on his shoulder. “You do not have to bear this burden alone. You are among friends.”

“Thank you, Princess. Rest assured, I have not yet lost hope; I’ve seen bleaker days than this.”

* * *

And so they begin. The Swift Wind resides once again in the Brightmoon harbor, but this time submerged completely. Entrapta gets promoted to ‘provisional administrator’ of the craft, and starts requisitioning raw materials to refill the depleted stores of fabrication stock — a task which Adora and Bow have given nary a thought ever since Huntara unearthed her.

Then, on day two, Adora gets a letter on her communicator:

> _Hey, Adora_
> 
> _So I heard you were working on recreating the whole fabricator thing, so I reached out to a few mutual acquaintances, whom I heard was in the market for work like that._
> 
> _Yours, Scorpia_

And on day three, Adora gets a call.

“Hey, you rebel coward.”

It’s Lonnie, of all people. Her tone is jest.

“Hey yourself, Horde scum,” Adora replies.

“Look…” Lonnie looks away. “Me and the boys decided we’re not getting paid enough to deal with this shit; and that was before the sky turned weird and Catra up and vanished.”

“I heard from Scorpia you’re looking for work.”

“Well,” Lonnie clicks her tongue. “It’s not that we _don’t_ want to just hide until this is all over, it’s that Rogelio is pretty sure there’s nowhere _to_ hide. He makes a strong case.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Adora says. “So. You wanna join the ever-growing club of former Horde members?”

“Well, yeah. How many in that club?”

“Uh, well, me, Scorpia, Shadow Weaver, a couple of engineers I think went to Candila, and a gal named Huntara who defected before magazines on rifles existed.”

“I’m about to expand that club by a shitload. Turns out Entrapta had friends. Can you send me some coordinates?”

Adora does.

Just outside Brightmoon’s portal barrier, a bit north of the harbor, a portal opens.

Through it comes Lonnie, Rogelio, Kyle, and fifty-seven former employees of the Science Divisions. Mostly advanced manufacturing and portal physics, but also sorcery, and medico-augmentational.

All people who have some reason or another to want to leave the horde, either to join up with Entrapta, because really they were in it for the science, or because they have been burned by the Horde.

(Such as a sorceress by the name of Mira, who narrowly evaded deployment to the front, after messing up some paperwork, which nearly got a certain spiteful cat killed.)

With them, they bring _several_ of everything. Fabricators, power generators, portal machines, and caches of projects on data crystals.

The timetable jumps forward by months. Suddenly they can en-mass train civilians in the use of fabricators, portals, and the works. Bow commissions Entrapta to design some more user-friendly controls, and she succeeds — or at least does better than what already exists.

Every available bit of fabrication capacity gets set up in the catacombs beneath the city, churning away at making more. And with the doctrine of decentralized production already in place — stolen directly from Catra’s own playbook, the largest hurdle is establishing trust.

King Micah plays that game better than Angella ever did.

Scorpia leads several portal-based raids into the Hordelands, under the direction of the re-assembled Hidden Library tracking array — now existing in triplicate — to capture yet more fabricators, portal devices, and power generators. These get shipped off to occupied Snows and Salineas, landing in the hands of insurgent groups, who come to be proficient in their use after Kyle got the idea to just write a layman’s manual.

On the diplomatic front, Apieria flips almost immediately, ever mercurial its princess — in exchange for fabricator tech, and the promise to disseminate it _widely._

By two weeks, the project is further along than Adora could have hoped.

But in the sky above, little green flashes of ships arriving continue. A few every minute. The Sola system is getting crowded.

* * *

They arrive at the ‘suite’ which consists of a green force-barrier door the size of a wall. One of the acolytes touches it, and the barrier goes down.

It reveals itself to make up the wall of what seems to be a common room: chairs chairs, a round table, and a tea kitchen. It’s about the size of the _wardrobe_ of the Queen’s Suite in the Brightmoon palace.

“Excuse me,” Catra says to the acolytes. “Can we get separate accommodations?”

“You already have,” one acolyte says. “Prime recognizes the social need for occasional isolation; the suite here has single-occupant sleeping chambers which double as meditation chambers. The chamber of ablutions also has a door that locks from the inside.”

“The height of luxury,” the other acolyte adds. “Such permission to focus on self-directed betterment of the self is usually reserved only for the highest tiers of devotees.”

“Great,” Catra growls. “Seems like we’re going to be cell-mates, Sparkles.”

“The wall clock will count down to dinner,” a third acolyte says.

Glimmer trudges in, and Catra stalks after. The green wall goes up, leaving them in silence.

Catra lets herself collapse in a lounge chair, tilting it perilously backwards, and resting her heels on the table. Her tail betrays her nervousness, swishing to and fro.

“Feet off the table,” Glimmer says.

“Bite me, Sparkles.”

Glimmer checks the bedrooms — identical; a mattress on the floor and no storage — and the bathroom — utilitarian; a squatting pit that doubles as the shower drain, and a full-body blow-drier.

She comes back to see Catra smoking.

“Could you _not_ do that?” Glimmer asks.

“Listen —” Catra says, and her ears move. “As soon as I lit up, a fan started somewhere. There’s filtration. Besides, this is my only pack. Once I’m through, you get to deal with me going through withdrawal. Look forward to that.”

She takes a drag and exhales a plume of smoke.

“How come you’re so insufferable?”

“Years of practice.”

Glimmer takes a seat, and runs her hands through her unruly hair. “I need a drink.”

“You and me both, Sparkles.”

“Okay, so what’s the game plan?” Glimmer asks.

“What?”

“How do we escape this place?”

“We don’t? We admit defeat, suck up to Big Daddy Prime, and make the best of the rest of our lives. I mean, realistically, what else is there to do?”

“Catra, work with me. Please.”

Catra takes another drag of her cheroot. “How’s Adora?”

Glimmer slumps. “I don’t know. We… We had a big fight a little over a week ago.”

“She went rogue.”

“I… I pushed her away. I was so sure I had the answers; we could solve one problem with the other. Gain control of the Heart, and use it to wipe out, well… This.”

Catra’s ears perk up. “Did you just say ‘solve one problem with another?’ That’s like, Shadow Weaver’s old catch phrase. Did—”

Glimmer looks away.

“Oh-ho-ho, you trusted _Shadow Weaver._ Oh man, this is _rich._ ”

“You might not know it, but she _is_ actually a brilliant sorceress, and she _did_ make some very compelling, well-reasoned arguments, put in a _ton_ of hours, and put herself in the line of fire to make this work.”

Catra chuckles. “She does that, and yet, it always works out for her, and schmucks like you and me pay the price.” She takes her feet off the table, and lets the chair drop onto all four legs, flicks ash on the table.

“I feel like gutter trash,” Glimmer mutters. “I pushed my two best friends away, and for what.”

“The world needs gutter trash like you and me,” Catra says. “People who aren’t afraid to see themselves as expendable in the service of the greater good.”

“When have _you_ ever acted in the greater good?” Glimmer shoots back.

“Believe it or not, the Hordelands has the lowest child mortality rates on Etheria,” Catra says.

“Adora said you don’t have Cholera either.”

Catra nods. “So I mean, lying, war criminal fuckheads hellbent on planetary conquest, sure, but at least our doctors know what they’re doing.”

“You’re… Very candid.”

“You can thank that little pet of yours, Double Trouble. They, uh… They said some things to me, that I’m still…” Catra looks away and takes a drag.

“Sorry. I put them up to it.”

“How?”

“Threatened to permanently brand them with an identifiable mark.”

“Ouch.”

Sitting down, Glimmer starts to feel just how tired she is. “Listen, uh… Nice talk. I’m going to go take a shower; I know a cleaning spell. For our clothes. If you’re going to wash up I could maybe do something about that uniform of yours.”

Catra nods. “I… Appreciate it. Yeah, that would be helpful.”

* * *

Landfall happens in the middle of breakfast. They’re prepared. The proliferation of fabricator technology is underway, underground, and unstoppable at this rate, and everyone has their bags packed and prepared to bug out.

A gigantic white craft drops gently from the sky, and lands on the open fields outside of Brightmoon, and starts disgorging an entire legion of light-grey-clad infantry, and armor support.

The flurry of activity that unfolds within the walls have all been planned in advance. Documents are misplaced, officials go home, never intneding to return, yellers run the streets informing everyone to keep calm and carry on.

> _By order of the King, the subjects of the crown are to cooperate as much as necessity demands._

They all meet up in the throne room.

Adora and Bow; King Micah, Castaspella, and Shadow Weaver; Spinnerella and Netossa; Perfuma, Scorpia, and Frosta; and Mermista with Sea Hawk and ’Dora.

Everyone packed and ready, armed with First-Ones’ weapons. Four little groups, ready to head each their own way.

“So,” Adora says. “This is goodbye for now.”

“You three take care of each other, out there in the heavens,” Spinnerella says.

“We will,” Adora says. “But first we have some intelligence gathering to do. Entrapta is going to remain with the Swift Wind, while Bow and I go. We need to speak to someone in the know.”

And that’s the trick of this: no-one knows where the others are headed.

“Your Majesty,” Bow says. “Are you and Lady Castaspella really going with Shadow Weaver?”

Shadow Weaver is wearing a mask again, reminiscent of her old style. Her hair is done up, however, and she is wearing trousers, which Adora has _never_ seen her do.

“We’re probably the best equipped to keep an eye on her,” Castaspella says. “We might be the only people in the world who trusts her lest than Adora.”

“My sister puts it well. She is still a prisoner of Brightmoon, we can’t let her escape,” Micah says.


	2. Organize, Resist

On of Entrapta’s little acts of genius, was automating the portal devices. The engines themselves are virtually maintenance free, and so they are mostly left in inaccessible places.

All Adora has to do to get conveyance for them, is to send a letter on her communicator with the coordinates, and desired portal size. A nearby device will respond when able, and since supply vastly outstrips demand — they are gearing up for full civilian proliferation of communicators — the response is instant.

A wormhole opens, to halfway around the planet.

Bow and Adora ride through. Deliberately traveling by horseback and in civilian clothes so as to not arouse suspicion. They are of course both armed, and Adora has a brand new set of enhancements laid in her skin — the quick and subtle version, rather than the more comprehensive suite Bow has; just a few separate diagrams, not a full-body thing.

It’s a half-day’s ride to Honeydew, across the cold summer in the plains of Apieria, while dropships and other things fly overhead like gleaming pearls in the low-shining daylight.

“Let’s see what awaits Brightmoon, huh?” Bow says.

They reach the city-limits and find the same city-limits as Adora crossed twice back in spring, staffed by the same masked, surly guardsmen. But interspersed between them are… Hordaks? Whichever species of bat-person Hordak was. They even look like carbon copies of him. Dressed in light grey battle armor, and armed with weapons that while futuristic, look much more mechanical than First-Ones’ tech tends to.

Entrapta called them ‘clones.’ Whatever that means.

Here they serve as overseers, or perhaps commanding officers; preserving the common soldier, while replacing the controlling hierarchy. Imperial conquest made manifest. The guardsmen are still carrying black-powder breech loaders, pockets full of paper cartridges.

The off-world Horde landed here a week ago.

Adora and Bow ride through the town gate, unmolested. A masked city guardsman, under the watch of an unarmed Horde clone soldier. They have nothing to declare, state their names as pseudonyms — ‘Tactica’ and ‘Fletcher’ — and proceed into town.

Sweet Bee has given them directions, which are simple enough: ‘get into town, stay in town, and we will come to you.’

All in all, life seems to proceed normally.

“Somehow I don’t think they’re going to let Brightmoon be Brightmoon, the way we see them let Honeydew be Honeydew,” Bow mutters.

But then they come a cross a disruption, one that seemed almost inconceivable in the well-regulated Honeydew of earlier in the year: a crowd of people, gathered around a mothfolk woman on a soapbox, dressed in official-looking attire.

There’s even a few armed Horde clones standing nearby, looking neutral.

Adora and Bow exchange a look, and ride closer.

“All I am saying is,” the woman says. “We all need to do our part, to be part of Horde Prime’s great empire. And that part is to do whatever they tell us to, and only that. Don’t get any funny ideas, don’t try anything new; it is not our place. Just do as you’re told, like good little worker bees, yeah?”

There’s a round of applause.

Bow leans to Adora. “Say, is she telling them what I think she is?”

Adora nods. “She is telling them not to take initiative. Look at the clones.”

They are standing by, not intervening.

“Either they don’t understand what she is saying, or they know they cannot justify overt action against her — she is after all telling people to comply. She might just get disappeared later,” Adora says.

“How come you know so much about this?”

Adora shrugs. “Believe it or not, despite my handicap, I have read several books. Required reading in the military academy included stuff about this; though more about how to combat it as an occupying force.”

Bow nods.

The speaker steps down from her box, and chats a bit, answering some questions from the crowd, but more importantly the crowd thins, and Adora and Bow head past.

“Hey, strangers!”

They both draw their steeds to a halt.

It’s the speaker from the crowd, who comes jogging. “You seem new here, might I invite you to that tavern over yonder for a chat about compliance with our new overlord Horde Prime?”

“Uh,” Bow says. “We’re kind of here on business.”

“Oh, I understand,” she says, and smiles. Her skin is delicately pink, and her hair is magenta. Her wings have white streaks in them, as if the natural color of the membranes have been bleached away.

“Have we met before?” Adora asks.

“I don’t believe we have,” the woman says, and winks.

Adora and Bow exchange looks. There’s no need for either of them to say something along the lines of _stay sharp, this one is suspicious._

“Fine, but you pay,” Adora says.

The woman curtsies.

They head to the tavern: an unassuming place. Bow ties their horses, and tips the stable-boy.

Inside it is as unassuming as outside. The woman points them to a booth, and heads to the bar, bringing them a round of beers.

As she sits and distributes two mugs, she traces out a circle on the table with a finger, and a small rune becomes visible.

“A little misdirection spell,” she explains. “No need to get in a tissy.”

“Okay, who are you?” Bow asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No?” Adora asks.

“This is what your darling Flutterina, rest her soul, would look like aged up. A bit tasteless, I know, but…”

“Double Trouble,” Adora says, edge in her voice.

“Yes, now put that gun away you’re holding under the table. I am not your enemy.”

“Then what are you?” Bow says.

“Get into town, stay in town, and we will come to you,” they say.

Adora holsters her gun inside her waistband. “You’re working with Sweet Bee and Peekablue?”

“You could say that.”

“Didn’t you betray the Horde?” Bow says, “I thought that would be the end of your credibility as a spy for hire.”

“In my defense, your friend the Queen near forced me into that one; I had to offer to turn coat, it was the only bargaining chip I had.”

Adora and Bow exchange looks.

“And more — our relationship is nothing so vulgar as me being a mere hired agent.”

Adora leans over. “Then for the sake of us trusting you, what _is_ it?”

Double Trouble glances out at the room. Nobody is paying attention, as per the spell. “Okay, you two are genuinely upstanding trustworthy people; I know that from experience, and that is the only reason I am willing to tell you this. Can I swear you to secrecy? Nothing untoward that would offend your sensibilities, I promise.”

“Depends,” Adora says.

They sigh. “I guess I earned your distrust. It started after I left the Horde, the night the stars appeared. I went _here,_ to Apieria, because I was honestly fascinated by this whole _personal mysteria_ that Princess Sweet Bee had, this reputation for brilliance and ruthlessness. Magnetic to a professional like myself.” They smile.

“So with my personal wealth, I inserted myself into high society, and started participating in courtly matters.” They gesture to themselves. “This form did very nicely.”

They take a dainty sip of beer. “I was _immediately_ spotted as an impostor by Prince Peekablue; of course. I should never have gone near him, given his powers, but curiosity kills the cat. Satisfaction brought it back, however, because he did not out me. Indeed he was not the one who first noticed something was off, he was just the one who deduced my identity.”

They lean in. “The Princess, due to her Runestone powers, can detect the presence of mothfolk. I was not a true mothfolk, so she took notice. Then, the two of them proceeded to play the most delightful game of skirting the truth, which initially baffled me, but when indictment never fell, I played along.”

“Do you have a point you’re getting to?” Adora says.

“Yes. I have never been so thrilled in my _life._ In the end, I simply had to break down and confess, the pressure of unspoken mutual knowledge grew too great — no one has ever gotten me to do that! And… As I already knew they would, they didn’t mind. And we continued the game, now keeping it a secret not from each other, but from everyone else.” Double Trouble looks away, smiling.

“Wait a minute,” Adora says. “You’re saying you became friends with Sweet Bee and Peekablue, and _that_ is why we should trust you?”

“Yes. Because I am _me_ and I have _never_ had a friend, much less wanted one. It is simply not in my nature, and yet… These two wonderful, smart, _beautiful_ —”

“I don’t know, Adora,” Bow says, snickering. “Sounds like more than just friendship.”

Double Trouble looks at Bow. “I… I don’t know? Is there such a thing? I’m only familiar with bonds of genuine fondness by observation and imitation; I— I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Double Trouble, are you in love?” Adora asks, baffled.

“I don’t know, what is it like to be in love?” They ask. “I always heard being in love was something you were towards _one_ person; this passion I feel concerns _both_ the Prince and Princess. I am _afraid,_ strangely that they do not feel a similar fondness towards me.”

Adora and Bow look at each other. Adora nods towards Double Trouble, as if to say _you do it!_

“Well,” Bow says. “That fear is probably the most sure way to know that you are in love. I think you should tell them how you feel?”

“Logically, I should they already know,” Double Trouble says.

“Still, it pays to say it out loud, just like the ‘game’ you played, right?” Bow continues.

Double Trouble looks into their drink.

“So… Let’s say we trust you now, since you’ve just… Confessed to having a crush?” Adora says. “What do you have to tell us?”

“Oh, right. The Prince and Princess wants to see you face-to-face. They have a way to obtain the information you seek, but the plan is one that would jeopardize their working relationship with Horde Prime. They need full deniability in this.”

“Then let’s go,” Adora says.

“Also, after that would be an opportunity for you to talk to them?” Bow suggests.

Double Trouble blushes. “Ah, yes. Of course. That too.”

* * *

Neither of them manages to get _any_ sleep. At some point, fear, stress, and regret turns to insomnia.

Catra is content to just lie down. She hasn’t been able to go to sleep without either alcohol or pills ever since the portal, and this is no different. The bedchambers are warm and comfortalby dark, and the blanket is just a sheet. More for modesty than anything else.

She gets up, and heads into the common room.

Glimmer is sitting there, with her glove. The portal device.

“Hey, what are you doing with that?!”

“I can’t sleep,” she says. She is fully dressed, and her hair is a mess — it seems her shower undid whatever styling kept it neat. “This was broken, so I mended it with a spell,” she says. She hands it to Catra. Indeed the leather has been mended so completely it seems it was never ripped.

Catra looks up. “Don’t touch my stuff,” she says. “And this isn’t even my size; I was actually going to take the weapon part off…”

Glimmer rests her head in her hands. “Do you think he’s going to kill us?” she says, moodlessly.

Catra pauses.

“Hey,” she says. “Even if you can’t sleep, lying down is the next best thing.”

Glimmer looks at her.

“Speaking from experience,” Catra adds. “And… Thanks for this one,” she gestures with the glove.

Glimmer narrows her eyes. “You’re… Occasionally polite. Almost nice. It’s transparent that it doesn’t come naturally. What’s your angle?”

“It’s called ‘manners,’ Sparkles. I can stop if it bothers you.”

“We’re enemies. You’re _Horde._ ”

“Yeah, but I’m not _his_ Horde.” Catra says, nodding to the green wall.

Glimmer stands. “I’m going to try to sleep again. Be quiet.”

* * *

Glimmer manages to get some sleep, and is woken up by a knock on her door.

“ _Sparkles. Dinner’s soon._ ”

She gets dressed, and opens, to see Catra by the table, packing up a game of solitaire.

“Hey, that’s _my_ divination deck!”

“Yeah I wondered why they are all hand painted.”

Glimmer scrambles to the table, gathers up the rest of the cards and snatches the deck from Catra. “These were my _mother’s._ ”

“Good for you.”

Glimmer leafs through the deck, inspecting the antique cardstock for damage. “And didn’t you chew me out for going through your stuff?”

Catra groans.

“You know, my mother is gone because of _you!_ And this is the only thing of hers I have with me here.”

“Yeah? About that, who don’t you just teleport out of here?”

“Because I can’t. I… I think I’m too far from my Runestone.”

The green wall goes down.

“Queen Glimmer, General Catra, you are cordially invited to join Horde Prime in the banquet hall.”

Catra holds out an arm.

“What’s that?” Glimmer says.

“ _I’m General, you’re Queen,_ ” Catra says, leaning in. “ _Let’s present a united front, shall we?_ ”

Glimmer reluctantly takes Catra’s offered arm.

* * *

The Banquet hall appears as if it has no roof. Above them, is the black sky full of stars, and off to one side, a reddish-orange planet. Glimmer and Catra doesn’t know, but it is a gas giant, with prominent rings.

“Ah, our guests of honor,” Prime says. “Please, sit.” He wipes his lips with a napkin as he stands.

The talbe is long, with Prime sitting in a throne-like chair by the end, and the only offered seats are to his left and right.

Catra leads Glimmer to sit by Primes’ right, and then walks back down and around the table’s other end to sit at his left.

On the table is all manner of foodstuffs in all manner of preparation, none of it familiar to either of them. A acolytes attends each of them, pouring a rich yellow liquid into the tall stemmed glasses.

“Please, avail yourself. These are some of the greatest delicacies of my vast empire. There shouldn’t be any problems of tolerance, as I have carefully selected only the most hypoallergenic foods.”

Primes’ own plate is tastefully arranged with a variety of foods in pleasing colors. His fork is untouched. His napkin is clean.

Glimmer takes out a small tube from a pocket in her gala uniform, and from the tube takes a poison sniffer — a furry snake — which curls around her wrist.

“Pray tell, what is that curious creature?” Prime asks.

“It detects poisons,” Glimmer says.

Prime chuckles. “Such precaution; rest assured if I wanted either of you dead, I would have led you to an airlock and ejected.”

Glimmer checks the wine anyway.

Catra takes her glass — both were decanted from the same vessel — and takes a sip. It is _delicious_ , delicately aromatic, and quite boozy. She swirls it around her mouth for a moment, then swallows, and waits for a moment. “Seems safe,” she says.

“As I said, your suspicion of me is misplaced,” Prime says.

Glimmer takes a sip. Her eyebrows rise.

“Now, as you are both unfamiliar, allow me to recommend you a selection.”

The acolytes begin serving them strange cuts of meats, delicately prepared vegetables, some of which are as clear as glass, and even something that seems mineral in nature.

Glimmer checks it with her poison sniffer, which clears it and recieves a treat.

Catra taste-tests it, and only then do they begin eating in earnest. It is _excellent_ food, and they are both famished.

“Now, Your Majesty,” Prime says. “I would like to formally apologize to you for the actions of my little brother. His adopting the barbaric ways of your home world was in violation of all decorum. And General, rest assured, I do not hold it against you that you participated in this; his is the whole of the blame.”

Glimmer and Catra look at each other, unsure how to react.

“You see, I desire only peace and order.”

“Then,” Glimmer says, “you’ll leave Etheria alone?”

Catra shakes her head.

Prime chuckles. “Unfortunately, no. I cannot let word spread of such a failure; that one of my kin should commit such a sin. Why, my empire is built on trust in my infallibility, you see. Such would be a blow to my reputation.”

“So you’re going to cover it up?” Catra asks.

“Nothing so primitive. I am going to cleanse your world of his presence. In the end Etheria will become another gem in the collection that is my empire, perfect in every way.”

Glimmer looks at Catra. “What do you mean by ‘cleansing’ it?”

“I shall unmake this aberrant ‘Horde’ derivate of his, and restore the world to a state where the scars of war are not present. The population shall be made to forget everything that ever happened, and perfect compliance will be what is left in place of the trauma of that ugly war.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Catra says.

“Unfortunately, this process is a time-consuming and delicate one, which means the first step is for me to achieve planetary conquest. Only then can the cleansing begin.”

“Somehow I don’t think they’ll take that lying down,” Catra says. “I’ve fought her people. I should know.”

Prime smiles. “Those who do not submit will be destroyed. Such is the fate of all who oppose me.”

Catra looks at Glimmer, who looks away.

“You seem troubled, Your Majesty. Perhaps you know that without your guidance, your people will choose death?”

Glimmer closes her eyes. “They will.”

“Since we are here in such a civilized setting, I offer you this opportunity: let your people know that they should submit to my will.”

“They won’t,” Glimmer says. “And for that matter, I will not either. You are never going to get my cooperation in conquering my people.”

Catra drops her fork and puts her face in both palms. _Now is not the time for heroics, Sparkles._

“Then I am afraid I must kill you. Consider this your last meal, as a courtesy.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Catra says.

Prime looks at her.

“Ehteria, the whole planet, is some kind of ancient superweapon of unimaginable power. The Queen here is an integral part of it’s functioning, so if you want to use it, you’ll need her alive; and if you want to learn how, I’m your best bet.”

Prime drums the table with his claws. “A weapon? That would explain the strange energy signatures.” He claps his hands. “This is _wonderful_ news. Your Majesty, I apologize for my conduct — I did not know the full picture. Your planet will not be a mere gem; it will be the crown jewel of my Empire.”

He turns to Catra. “And for your cooperation, I shall grant you an honorable induction into my acolytes.”

Glimmer glares at Catra.

“Thank you, Lord Prime,” Catra says. “It is an honor to serve.”

* * *

Glimmer is escorted back to their suite by armed acolytes, while Catra stays behind.

With nothing to do, she paces back and forth, fury boiling in her veins. Ten minutes later, Catra enters.

The green wall closes behind her, and Glimmer stides to her, pointing menacingly at her face. “You _traitor._ Does Etheria mean _nothing_ to you?”

Catra bares her fangs. “Thank you for saving my life, Catra. Look, I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation here,” she says.

“Yeah, and if I know you right, that is all you have _ever_ done, isn’t it?” Glimmer snarls.

Catra holds up her hand. She is carrying a rather roomy carafe of the yellow wine. “I got some perks, and we need to talk. Drink?”

Glimmer facepalms. “Fine. It’s not like I have much of a choice.”

Catra sits, puts two glasses from the tea kitchen on the table. “First, he has agreed not to surveil this room. I’ve said this was the only way I could get you to talk. I’ve been granted free roam of the entire Velvet Glove, save a few restricted areas — senior acolyte privileges.” She snickers. “He calls me ‘little sister’ isn’t that fucked up?”

“All this in exchange for Etheria on a platter?” Glimmer says. “You don’t know shit about the Heart of Etheria.”

“No, I don’t; which is why you’re going to tell me, so I can drip-feed info to the very nice omnipotent warlord who is holding us captive, while we consider our next move.”

“I thought you had your next move figured out already.”

“I _might,_ ” Catra says, as a threat. “But unlike you, I have to put in work to be of value to Prime. And you know as well as I do, that I’m _good_ at that.”

“I thought he only surrounded himself with… Himself,” Glimmer says. “They all look identical, if it wasn’t for his clothes and those tubes on his head, I woulnd’t be able to tell Prime from the acolytes.”

“ _All creatures, not matter how small, has a place with Prime,_ ” Catra quotes. “So. I’ve got options, you’ve got none.”

“I could kill you right here,” Glimmer says. “Sorcery still works.”

“Yeah, take your chances with that, I dare you. You saw what he did to Hordak.”

Glimmer reacehs for the decanter, and pours herself, then Catra, a glass of wine. “Do you _really_ think you can come out on top, or are you just in denial?”

Catra drinks.

“So. The Heart. What is it, where is it, how does it work, and why does Prime need you?” Catra asks.

* * *

Double Trouble takes them to the castle. An insectoid drone greets them at the gate, and lets them into the keep. In the dark stone antechamber, a portal opens, and Double Trouble leads them through.

“Ah, Adora, and Bow, was it?” Sweet Bee says.

The chamber they enter is one of comfort, if not luxury. Spacious and windowless.

Sweet Bee sits on a lounge chair, while Peekablue stands behind her. Her dark curls are done up in a high ponytail, and her dress is white, with hexagon pattern. Peekablue is in a snazzy suit, with short hair.

“Princess Sweet Bee,” Adora greets her. Glimmer’s warning about her personality rises to the forefront of her mind: dangerous. “Prince Peekablue, long time no see.”

“So, we heard you are after information about the whereabouts of Brightmoon’s missing Queen,” Sweet Bee says. “While we cannot give it to you, we know how to obtain it. For She-Ra, it should be child’s play.”

“Alas, I see now that She-Ra is dead,” Peekablue says. “My condolences. That will complicate it.”

“Perhaps,” Double Trouble says, “I can lend my physical abilities? Contrary to appearances, I am an excellent combatant.”

“We were going to suggest that,” Sweet Bee says. “Very kind of you to volunteer, Dee-Tee.”

“So, what’s target?” Adora says.

“Ah, the tactician has lost none of her edge,” Peekablue says. “Happy to see. The target is a ‘who,’ not a ‘what.’ Prime has sent us a supervising govenor; another clone, but contrary to popular belief, they are not all the same.”

“They are also very susceptible to sorcery,” Sweet Bee says. “I shall prepare a number of spells for you. The most important part is that he must not even _know_ he has been captured and interrogated.”

“Or he’ll rat us out,” Bow says.

“Worse,” Peekablue says. “Even if we erase his memory, everything he experiences will be conveyed back to Prime. So that is the first spell you must lay on him; preferably without even letting him see your faces.”

“Wait,” Adora says. “We have portal machines.”

“Yes,” Peekablue says. “And I propose you use one to portal into the man’s bedchambers and grab him by the collar. She-Ra’s raw physical strength would assist in that.”

Adora blinks. “So you need She-Ra for her big muscles.”

“Yes.”

“Uh, I might be able to help?” Double Trouble says. “I am _very_ strong, if I need to be.”

Adora jabs a thumb at Double Trouble.

“Again, deniability. It needs to look like anybody could do it,” Peekablue says. “Hence,” he gestures to Adora and Bow. “Please. I really _have_ thought this through.”

“For now, until nightfall, feel free to stay with us here; this space is safe,” Sweet Bee says.

“Yeah, where are we?” Bow asks.

“In a cave that does not connect to the surface, twenty miles outside Honeydew, and one mile down. First-Ones’ devices provide the lighting, the fresh air, and even recycles the water. Portals are the only way in or out,” Sweet Bee says. “We’ve been living here for a week now.”


	3. Little War, Waged from the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: battle violence, gore

Adora trudges through the Whispering Woods.

Then the woman of light appears, and she runs after.

They end up in a field of grass; above her the night sky is phantasmally purple, full of an infinitude of stars, and not a vortex of doom.

A wormhole hangs above, just out of reach.

And beyond it, from her, stands a figure of pure starlight. Hair blowing in the wind.

She is slender and athletic, dressed for combat, with a rifle.

She is tall and imposing, clad in plate and cape, poleaxe resting over her shoulder.

She is an orc.

She is an elf.

She is hundreds.

She is no taller than Adora, perhaps nude, holding a sword.

She is angelic, with wings flared, holding a staff with a loop.

She is a girl.

She is a crone.

She is hundreds.

She is crowned with horns, and webbed of wing, a tail that ends in a spade tip.

The light is blinding.

Adora wakes with a start, in cold sweat. It’s that recurring dream again.

There’s a knock on the door to the guest room Adora has chosen.

Adora sits up on the futon, sleep leaving her mind and body. “Come in,” she says.

Peekablue opens. “Hello, dear. Had a nice nap despite the bad dream? How do you like your eggs?”

He is wearing an apron that says ‘kiss the cook’ on it.

“Is… Is it morning?” Adora asks, confused.

“For dinner. You don’t eat eggs for dinner sometimes in the Horde?”

“Uh… Omelette?”

Peekablue smiles. “Isn’t it lucky that omelette is what’s for dinner?”

Adora gets up, and heads to the dining room.

Bow is there, looking better rested than her, eating an omelette. He waves with his fork. “Adora, this man is a mad genius with a frying pan.”

Adora takes a seat by the plate, which has a lump of white rice on it. She blinks a little, and then Peekablue comes, and from a warm pan, lays a yellow omelette on top of it, then slices it open with a knife, making the whole thing unfold in spectacular fashion. The delicate aroma is delightful.

“Wow,” Adora says, and picks up her fork. The taste and texture does not disappoint.

Peekablue continues cooking, cracking eggs into the pan again. He’s humming, and smiling wide. Sweet Bee and Double Trouble are nowhere to be seen, and indeed the table is only decked for three.

“So, change of plans, Dee-Tee will not be joining you,” he says.

* * *

Rested, fed, and geared up, Adora steps up to the task.

First, she takes a portal from the cave, to a spot in the middle of nowhere — nothing but grass and night sky — then using a separate portal machine, she portals to a different bit of middle-of-nowhere, and only then does she dial in the coordinates Peekablue gave her.

She is wearing light-weight body-armor painted generic black, and a face-concealing mask. Her weapons are a little bident that dispenses painful and debilitating electrical shocks from its prongs, and a Zev-model handgun.

The wormhole opens in front of her to a darkened room. She steps through, silently and orients herself. A bedroom, with a four-poster bed and silk sheets. Empty.

A candle-flame is flickering on the desk, and there, is sitting a Clone, dressed in white robes, writing by candlelight.

Adora readies the paper-inscribed charm, and sneaks closer.

Then she steps on a creaky floorboard.

The Clone turns, and green eyes behold her for a moment; she lunges, and slaps the paper in the man’s face.

“What is the meaning of—” he manages.

Then Adora puts the stun stick to his neck, and he goes down.

She holds her breath for a moment, listening for footsteps. None come. She takes hold of the clone’s ankles, and drags him through the portal, into the open night air.

Bow is waiting there. The portal closes, and he picks up the clone by the armpits.

Like Hordak, this one is enormous of stature, and quite heavy.

Together they carry him through a different wormhole, and then another, back to the cave.

“He saw me,” Adora says, as soon as the portal closes behind her.

“Hm,” Peekablue says. “We better act quickly, then.”

The door to the interrogation room opens, and Sweet Bee steps inside, with heir curly hair done up in a messy bun. She is followed by Double Trouble, in their usual reptilian guise.

“Adora got spotted,” Double Trouble repeats.

Double Trouble saunters over, and sits the clone up in a chair — effortlessly picking up the heavy body — and ties him up.

Then Sweet Bee steps up, takes out another paper charm, and affixes it with a slap, to the clone’s forehead, then puts her boot on the man’s knee.

The Clone wakes.

Looks around.

“Most interesting; what is this? The Princess conspires?”

“I do indeed,” she says. “You are going to answer my questions.”

“Or what?”

“Or nothing. There’s an enchantment on you which compels you to.”

He frowns, and his ears twitch. “This will have grave consequences.”

“Not it won’t,” she says. “Because I have also revoked your ability to form memories, and I have made you unable to transfer your thoughts to your brethren.”

He snarls. “Fine. What do you want to know, _Princess?_ ”

“The Queen of Brightmoon was taken as a prisoner. Where is she?”

“Ah, Queen Glimmer, yes. She is being entertained on board the Velvet Glove, Horde Prime’s flagship,” he says. “Rest assured, she is quite safe.”

“And where is the Velvet Glove?” Sweet Bee asks.

“Alas, I do not know star charting well enough to tell you. Eventually it will come here, following the capital craft, the Iron Fist, and an entire Void to perform the cleansing of this world.”

“— An organizational division of space military,” Peekablue supplies. “A _large_ one. Think armada, not flotilla. How would we locate it if we wanted to board it?”.

“Why, when it arrives here in the system, Prime will situate it in the gravitational neutrality point ahead of the largest planet in orbit. Otherwise the subspace ansible network holds what you seek.”

Peekablue takes out a notepad and writes a few things down. “And when will it arrive?”

“In A matter of weeks. Time keeping is difficult in interstellar travel, so I cannot give you anything more specific,” the clone says, almost apologetically.

Peekablue notes the last few details. “Okay. Adora, Bow, put this oaf back where you found him,” he says.

Sweet Bee strides over and jams a syringe in the clones’ neck, and injects him with an amount of something clear. He collapses.

Through another couple of misdirection portals, they place him back in his room, staged: the syringe will imply an assassination attempt; supported by the brevity of the encounter.

They return to find Peekablue massaging his orbit bones. Sweet Bee is standing by him, rubbing his shoulders.

“So, what now?” Adora asks.

“Well, your little screw-up may have consequences that I cannot see right now,” he begins. “I just about gleaned everything I hoped from him. Your Entrapta will be able to piece everything together —” he taps the notepad. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go deal with this headache.”

He strides over to the door, and in passing, hooks a finger in Double Trouble’s collar, pulling the shapeshifter along with him. Double Trouble rolls their eyes. “Work, work.”

Sweet Bee smiles, looking after them. “So. That went well,” she says in a honeyed voice. “I am famished, though. Can any of you cook?”

* * *

This time she is more lucid.

“I’m not sorry,” Adora says. “For breaking the Aegis.”

The light is unwavering.

Adora looks away. “Though… I miss knowing that I meant something. I had a destiny.”

No answer.

“But that was Light Hope, wasn’t it? She chose me because I was the only viable candidate.” Adora looks up at the portal.

“Thank you,” she says. “Netossa is right. I can help my friends even if you aren’t with me anymore.”

* * *

In the morning, the reckoning comes.

They enjoy a cordial breakfast together in the dining room; Adora, Bow, Peekablue, and Sweet Bee. Double Trouble is out. Peekablue’s cooking is immaculate as ever.

“So,” Adora says. “What happened with you two and Double Trouble?”

Sweet Bee looks over at her husband, and takes his hand. “That is for us to know, and you to ever speculate about. You’re a smart young woman, you’ll figure it out.”

Bow snorts. “Your Highness, aren’t you only twenty-nine years old?”

“Ah, as part of my wife’s inane vanity, she refuses to acknowledge the fact that she has already turned thirty,” Peekablue says. “Two years ago.” Sweet Bee punches him affectionately in the shoulder.

Double Trouble enters the dining room, in their Flutterina-like form, holding a few leafs of paper.

“Shit,” Peekablue says.

“We’ve been had, I don’t know how,” Double Trouble says. “They’re going to launch an investigation of the court, and there’s these three:”

They spread the leaflets out on the paper. Wanted posters, promising bounties for… The portraits are of Adora, Bow, and Double Trouble’s alter ego. No names for Bow and Adora, only their given aliases, Fletcher and Tactica.

“It’s the body language,” Peekablue says. “He saw you move; somehow cross referenced it with the clone guards out in the city who saw you ride in, someone saw Dee-Tee lead you to the castle, hence the court is under investigation.”

Sweet Bee chuckles. “Well, I guess it is time to officially declare exile.”

* * *

Outlining exactly what Glimmer knows about the Heart of Etheria doesn’t take all that long. Still, they manage to get through the first carafe of yellow wine.

Both of them are strong drinkers — it comes with the stress of command — and so the second carafe come to its right before the day… Or night… Is over.

“So to summarize this Light Hope killed all your people and now has control,” Catra says. “How come we aren’t all dead yet?”

Glimmer shakes her head. “I don’t know. Right as we were teleporting out, I saw the Swift Wind fly in; which means Bow and Adora made it off Beast Island. I can only assume they intervened, somehow, to stop her.”

Catra nods. She drinks.

Glimmer mirrors her.

“Do you miss her?” Catra asks.

Glimmer reaches for the wine.

“Of course I do. She’s my friend.”

Catra looks away.

“You miss her too,” Glimmer says.

“I’ve come to terms with it,” Catra says. “We went our separate ways. The past is the past.”

“And what about the future?”

“Well, according to the super weapon at the center of Etheria, there might not be one,” Catra snarks.

They sit in silence for a little. Glimmer reaches over and fills Catra’s glass again, emptying the carafe.

“To Adora,” Glimmer says, raising her glass.

Catra does as well.

“Hey, if we were back home,” Catra says. “What’s the first thing you’d do?”

“Apologize to Adora, see if she’d take me back. Bow, he— he’d be angry with me for a while, but I know he’d come around. You?”

Catra shakes her head. “There’s this little bar I like. It’s lame, compared to yours.”

“You’re… Lonely, aren’t you?”

Catra scoffs. “You’re the prisoner here, I can go where I want now.”

“And yet, you’re here, drinking with someone who a couple of weeks ago brought a warehosue roof down on your head.”

Catra drinks.

“What was it like, back then?” Glimmer asks. “When you two were just common soldiers in the Horde?”

Catra smiles, despite herself. “It was good. When we went to the academy, it was the first time we were away from Shadow Weaver for real. Suddenly we could mess up and Adora wouldn’t get anxious that Shadow Weaver was going to take it out on me.”

Glimmer winces. “So what did you do?”

“It’s gonna sound silly; we had sleepovers. Real girls’ nights. Sometimes a few of the boys would sneak over too. We’d play tricks on the other cadets — especially Kyle. Until Rogelio came, he only had girls for friends. Then we’d stay up until we physically couldn’t stay awake; whispering about…”

“About what?”

“You know; whatever fifteen year old girls whisper about.”

Glimmer giggles. “Did Adora try to fight her blanket every night back then too?”

Catra nods and snorts. “Sometimes she’d go to bed in one bunk, and wake up in another. Usually mine. But only when I didn’t sleep in her foot end.”

They laugh a little, and toast, clinking their glasses together.

“I miss them,” Glimmer says. “I was awful, the last time I saw them. Threatened them both with like, banishment, if they didn’t obey. And all I was doing was listening to Shadow Weaver instead of my conscience.”

“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” Catra says.

“That wicked old witch should fall down a well.”

“Yeah.”

Catra empties her glass. She takes out her pack of smokes. Only a few left. She puts it away again.

Glimme empties hers as well. “Are there really nobody on Etheria you’d want to see?”

“There’s nothing on Etheria, for me,” Catra says. “You don’t get to be where I was without offending a lot of people. Maybe a new start is what I need.”

“Catra; listen,” Glimmer says. “I can tell, already, that underneath all that Soldiering, and all that mean and evil, deep down, you have a little nugget of gold in your heart.”

“Wow, thanks. That’s like, almost an insult.”

“All I’m saying is: maybe don’t just assume you’re gutter trash? Scorpia was genuinely concerned for you when she showed up in Brightmoon.”

“Scorpia and I broke up.”

“Still, she cares. That’s at least one person. You can’t deny that”

Catra says nothing.

“Oof, I’m going to need another glass if you’re that gloomy.”

Catra stands, grabs the carafe and walks theatrically around to table, over to Glimmer, and leans in to fill her glass.

“Does the Majesty need anything else?” Catra asks.

“Getting laid would be nice.”

Catra blushes. “Wh—”

Glimmer leans in and caresses Catra under the chin, going for a kiss.

Catra steps back, tail swiping to and fro.

Glimmer stands up, steadying herself with a flutter of her wings. She steps up to Catra, blocking her escape with both wings, and the table behind.

“You’re drunk,” Catra says.

“So’re you, you’re just better at hiding it.” Glimmer puts a hand on Catra’s chest. “And do you mean to tell you that has ever stopped you?”

She leans in and kisses her. Catra tastes like the wine they’ve been drinking, served up in an ashtray.

Catra gives in, a little.

“And look at it this way, we might be able to get a good night’s sleep,” Glimmer adds. “It’s been a while; I think for you as well.”

Catra reaches back and grabs the carafe, then takes a swig, slams it on the table and grabs Glimmer around her waist.

What’s a little drunken revelry between enemies.

* * *

Adora and Bow say their goodbyes to their three hosts, and head back to brightmoon the way they came; by portal. They step from the plains of Apieria to the middle of the Whispering Woods, by a little log cabin, only an hours walk from the southern coast. It’s occasionally used by the rangers, and enchanted so as not to be overgrown.

“This is the ‘hideout’ you spoke of?” Adora says.

“Hey, we’ve seen worse,” Bow says.

“We sure have.”

Adora sits on a log outside while Bow checks the inside for errant critters.

She takes out her communicator and calls up Entrapta.

Entrapta appears, purple pig-tails and all. “Adora! Hello!”

“Hey, how’s my spacecraft?”

“Well,” Entrapta says. “She’s fine. Darla manages most of it, but you already knew that.”

“Darla?”

“Oh, I named the custodian. Darla, say hi!”

“`Hello.`”

“Okay. How is the escape plan looking?”

“From a calibrations standpoint, everything is looking _much_ better. I can’t believe you were flying missions in this thing — everything was out of spec by a thousand years worth of drift! I also hacked into your messages, because you had this big chunky file lying around.”

“Entrapta! That’s the personality construct imprint of my _mom!_ Please tell me you didn’t tamper with it!” Adora says, panicked.

“Yes, I know. I booted her up, which might I add is _really_ inadvisable without dedicated hardware. She seemed very confused about the whole thing, but I was able to get her to tell me some things; notably how to fix her.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, since it is _your_ mom, and not mine, I’ll let you turn her on when you get back here.”

Adora almost sheds a tear. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Entrapta.”

“Then there’s another problem; I’ve been coordinating with Mermista and Sea hawk; and with Scorpia, Perfuma and Frosta. A new type of landing vessel came in yesterday. Maybe you can see them from where you are? Big white spires.”

“Not from where I am,” Adora says. “I’m in the woods.”

Her communicator chimes, and she gets a picture of the white spires.

“Now, those are part of the Horde’s communication network. Now I’m pretty close to cracking their code, but we had a burst of activity in the early hours of the morning. This could mean anything, but it is most certainly nothing good.”

“Horde Prime’s capital ship is arriving,” Adora supplies; she consults Peekablue’s note. “One called the Iron Fist, along with a delecation of spacecraft, which are going to perform a ‘cleansing’ of Etheria.”

Entrapta tilts her head. “Anyway, do you think you could go poke around one of those big spires for me? If you can get your hand on some tech, I might be able to spoof us some access to Horde Prime’s subspace ansible network.”

Adora turns to see Bow exit the cabin, giving her a thumb’s up.

“Hey, Bow, are you up for a smash-and-grab?”

* * *

The day is coming. That much is certain.

News comes regularly, in the form of Prime’s propaganda machines. Free Horde newspapers can be had on virtually any street corner in the occupied territories, and flyers rain from the sky.

Apieria is declared to be protectorate, with the exile of its monarchs, joining Brightmoon and Snows.

Candila, notably, has formally surrendered. Peftasteri and Meteora have sworn allegiance.

The Hordelands are… Complicated. Stragely, on at least two occasions, open combat has broken out between local Horde soldiers, and their off-world counterparts. Both times it ended badly. This is not in the papers, but Lonnie retains connections in the intelligence communities back home.

Salineas, being thoroughly conquered, is counted amongs the Horde territotries already, and has thus not recieved any formal recognition as a protectorate — much to Mermista’s strange annoyance.

About, in holes, and under rocks, fabricators are being crammed into every available space, and portals too. Communicators are starting to end up in the hands of civilians, along with chain messages detailing the mission goals — but no actual mission.

They lay low for a few days in the forest, planning their next move: an attack on one of the spires.

It involves a lot of calling around and asking if the others are available. Turns out most of them are: Mermista, Frosta, Scorpia, and Perfuma all have space in their calendars.

* * *

“Entrapta are you with us?” Bow asks.

“ _Loud and clear, and crisp image._ ”

Perfuma is the one who has suggested the target: they have had the audacity to land three of the spires in _her_ forest, within viewing distance from the highest point in Plumeria.

Plumeria is an official sattleite of Brightmoon, and so technically under Horde control now, and Perfuma has wisely sent her plant monsters into the woods, laying them to rest, ready to rise to the occasion if need be. The off-world Horde has never seen them.

The work of months of Perfuma using her powers to the point of numbness and near-hypothermia. There’s _thousands_ of them.

“Perfuma, if you will,” Adora says.

They are on top of Dagon Rock, from which, the three spires in the vincinity of Plumeria are clearly visible.

Perfuma has upgraded her get-up. While the others are wearing standard-issue First-Ones’ body armor, Perfuma is daintily sitting in the… Maw? Of a plant monster. A huge eight-legged snake-like thing, on par in size with the largest monsters roaming the forest, with four jaws that unfold like a gigantic man-eating flower.

She waves a hand towards the forest. In the distance, a cacophony rises: strange yawps, unlike any living animal.

“Now we wait,” Perfuma says.

“You get to have all the fun, Green Thumb,” Scorpia says.

She’s the only one not wearing First-Ones’ armor. She’s just wearing practical trousers, boots, and a jacket. When Adora objected to this, she took out a Runestone power suppressor projector, pointed it at herself, and proceeded to cause it to explode by calling on the Black Garnet. She did concede to wearing a helmet in the unfolding collar configuration, in case anyone should use gas against her.

They wait, using their helmet visors’ magnification function to look at the target spire. (Scorpia and Perfuma use binoculars.)

Then it begins: there’s flashes of light from explosions, and a few of the plant beasts can be seen climbing the structure.

From this distance, the only signs of battle are the flashes of gunfire.

The spires land in a folded configuration, and after unfolding their additional stability legs, the operators lay out anchors and tie guy wires.

One of the taut cables snap, then another, then the foliage moves. The living trees arrive.

A minute later, the whole tower begins toppling. Slowly at first, then faster. The boom of it landing is audible even from there.

“All right,” Adora says. “Now we move out.”

“Your turn, Sco,” Perfuma says.

She retreats into her monster’s body, and Scorpia leaps onto its tail. Perfuma — it’s not that she controls the monster, per her own words she _is_ the monster — curls up like a spring, and launches Scorpia into the air at breakneck speeds.

Scorpia cackles like a madwoman on her ascent, then becomes aglow with energetic plasma, and takes off like ball lightning.

Perfuma meanwhile just takes off running, her eight long legs moving with unnerving speed and grace. She’s faster through the rough terrain than Bow or Adora on a speeder would be on flat ground. It is downright unnerving.

“These two are getting insufferable,” Frosta says. “Mermista, can I come with you after we’re done here?”

“Why, what do they do?” Mermista asks.

“It’s not what they _do,_ ” Frosta says. “It’s what they _need:_ a damn _honeymoon._ ”

They all chuckle.

In the distance, lightning strikes the closest spire. Three times in rapid succession.

“All right, let’s go,” Adora says. She pushes the button, sending for a portal, and one opens next to them.

Frosta flips down her visor, and Mermista effortlessly lifts the massive water-tank backpack she carries as if it was empty.

Accompanied by a personal drone each, they proceed through the portal, Adora taking point with a Toha-Zev, and Bow forming rear with his namesake.

They emerge between the trees, a bit outside the clearing surrounding the spire: a space full of half cut stumps, half dug-up stumps. A small camp has been erected, but already, the soldiers stationed here are moving out, running for three flying dropships moored opposite the camp.

That leaves a skeleton crew. Adora holds them at bay until the reinforcing group is probably at the halfway point between this spire, and the one under harassing assault by two of the most overtly powerful Runestone wielders on Etheria.

“Let’s hope these fools never find out about suppressors,” Mermista mutters.

“Can you two get us some fog cover?” Adora asks.

“Not as fast without Spinnerella,” Frosta says.

Mermista supplies the water and initial momentum, and Frosta the temperature. Once aerosolized, their control of it diminishes, but then they are upwind of the camp.

They all switch their visors to a sight mode that ignores water mist, and move in. Bow finds them a path that goes from cover to cover behind the largest stumps; Adora follows him on auto pilot, firing on the move.

“We’re under attack!” a clone yells somewhere. “Battle stations!”

“They’re using smoke! Goggles!”

Adora turns her gun to low, and starts working on the emplaced guns up on the spire itself, her gun quietly going ‘ _thwip_ ’ and a clone and gun going down with inch-wide holes gouged in both, the low-power beam invisible in the daylight.

A squad — not that the clones can afford it — go into the fog, guns at the ready. They are wearing some kind of goggles, and seem to be able to find their way with purpose even in the dense fog, though not as well as the First-Ones’ tech can.

“Frosta, shall we?” Mermista says.

They both stand from cover, and stretch out a hand: four of the clones collapse, spewing blood and bits of flesh.

The others start firing into the fog, hitting nothing.

“Show off,” Frosta says, and with a wave of her hand cooks the brains of the remaining enemies sous-vide in their own intracranial fluid.

“You two are going to get along just fine,” Bow notes.

There’s a crack, and Frosta tumbles. Then the gunshot sounds.

“Sniper!” Adora yells.

Mermista grabs Frosta by her body’s water, telekinetically moves her to cover — a much gentler touch even than grabbing her with hands, and lets Mermista fall into cover at the same time, her water tank being the only thing poking out.

“Is she okay?” Adora asks Mermista.

“Yeah I’m okay,” Frosta grunts. “Armor stopped it.”

The high-caliber bullet is poking out from an armor panel in her side.

“Take it easy, girl,” Mermista says. “You might have broken a rib.”

“Oh, yeah, that I do,” Frosta says, and laughs weakly. “Any chance you can magic up some healing, Adora?”

Adora shakes her head.

Bow sends his probe out from behind cover, and up above the fog banks.

“Do you see him?”

“I do,” Bow says.

He nurslings his Zev rifle and redirects the scope view to his visor. The only thing he pokes out of cover is the weapon; he takes aim, and shoots twice with barely any recoil.

“I’m gonna take control of your drones,” he says. The three little spheres following Frosta, Mermista, and Adora, each take off as well, as Bow programs them using the eye-tracking in his visor.

“Ball up!” Bow yells.

They all thrown themselves into cover in fetal position.

A half second later, there’s a powerful air-burst explosion.

“They have a dug-in mortar! Adora!”

He throws her an indicator on her visor, and she quickly pops out of cover to take aim. She dials the Toha-Zev to full power, and shoots.

“Low and to the left!”

She aims higher. Shoots again.

“Still left!”

Another adjustment, another shot. There’s an explosion in the distance, as the mortar emplacement’s ammo cache takes a direct hit and goes off.

“All right, we really need to move now!” Bow yells.

“Go, go!” Adora says. “I’ll be right behind!”


	4. Being Known, Mortifying Ordeal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: battle violence

The unassuming blonde woman favoring red, and the masked assassin in the night, are one and the same; that much is obvious.

But Prime, in this rare moment of idleness, ponders deeper than that. This is in the conquest, the first overt and targeted aggression with at least _some_ political motive.

“Who _are_ you?” he asks the frozen image on the screen.

* * *

The path up the spire is a relatively easy one; barring the fact that it has a lot of steps, and Frosta is in a lot of pain.

Bow uses the drones to scout out the path up. The stairs are all external, but there’s still access corridors that might hide ambushes, or just the simple geometry of the tower.

“What happened to your healing?” Frosta asks.

Mermista and Adora are both lending her a hand.

“I can’t do it anymore,” Adora says. “Not since She-Ra died. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Sucks.”

“Yep.”

Bow stops, holding up a hand. “We’re about to reach the control room, I think.”

“ _Yes you are,_ ” Entrapta says.

“Oh good, you’re still there.”

“ _I never left; I just don’t know anything about fighting. And… It’s a little disturbing to see… See clones getting killed. They all look like Hordak… Anyway; you need to stop them from destroying or disabling anything._ ”

“What makes you think they haven’t already?” Adora asks.

“ _It’s still active, I can tell from here._ ”

“Mermista,” Adora says. “You breach. Bow, cover her.”

“Go,” Frosta says. “I’ll be fine.” She wrests herself away from Adora, and leans against the body of the spire.

Adora nods. She slings her rifle on her back, and draws her side-arm: a Yala-Zev. She still takes rear, and lets Mermista enter first, followed by Bow with his bow.

Mermista summons a blade of water — a stream the width of a needle, moving at near the speed of sound — and cuts the hinges and the bolt. A swift kick sends the heavy steel door falling inwards.

“Intruders! Security!” a clone yells inside, Mermista swiftly dispatches both them, and everyone else in the room.

“Clear!” she says.

“We might have incoming,” Bow adds.

Adora hears running footsteps, followed by the quiet snapping of a bowstring, twice in rapid succession.

Adora is content that no-one is coming either from above or below, and so waves Frosta inside.

It’s a very utilitarian space; six workstations with six dead clones, two more — armed guards — lie dead by the internal elevator.

“ _All right, find somewhere to plug me in, then start grabbing everything that isn’t nailed down._ ”

Bow locates what looks like appropriate terminal, and applies one of Entrapta’s devices: a small box with an indicator light, and the opposite side coated in purple translucent slime. He shoves it against the data outlets, and the slime bridges the contacts.

“ _Ah, unencrypted, how wonderful, give me a second._ ”

All the workstations are seemingly no more than desks with terminals full of data cable outlets, to which a variety of equipment is connected. Bow and Adora both start disconnecting whatever they can and shoving it in bags.

“ _Okay, so, here’s what I’ve learned: this is a propaganda broadcasting network._ ”

Adora, Bow and Mermista all exchange looks. “Erm, what?” Adora asks.

“ _Well, it does a lot of other infrastructure-y things too, but all off-world Horde ships seem to. What makes this model unique is that… Well, first of all, direct ansible network integration, which is promising; but also it can project a hologram of a person over the spire. All the spires on Ehteria, at once._ ”

“Can you make it do that?”

“ _Oh, easily. I already have full control over the whole structure._ ”

There’s a split second decision to be made.

“Whoever goes on here,” Mermista says, “Is going to become the face of the entire resistance.”

They all look at Adora.

The whole structure hums alive.

* * *

“ _Rejoyce, Etheria, for Prime has come to you._ ”

Guard General Juliet looks east over the open lowlands, out a window. There, where the spire once was, is someone who looks like Chancellor Hordak, maybe a mile tall.

“ _Fear not; you have been given an opportunity to partake in a world soon to be re-made in my image._ ”

Captain Scurvy sees the figures dot the coast, as the _Forth_ sails by. His entire crew stops work for a moment to listen to the booming voice.

“ _My light will cleanse this world of all its imperfection and violence, and then you shall know blessed peace and order._ ”

Killigan interrupts class to let the kids hang out the windows to listen.

“ _Commendations go to the many governments of your world, for so quickly casting out the harmful meritocratic oligarchy in favor of allowing me to assume control of your policies. This you will not regret._ ”

Scout Captain Seneschal scrabbles for pen and paper to note it down.

“ _And remember: Prime sees all. Prime knows all. Devotion will be rewarded with deliverane from darkness._ ”

* * *

“That was ominous,” Frosta says.

Bow was quick to send a drone darting out to see the whole figure from afar, and they have all followed it on their visors.

“Now we have a face to put to the name,” Mermista says. “A really punchable face.”

“ _That served nicely as demonstration. So, should I activate it?_ ”

“Give me a few seconds,” Adora says.

She undoes her helmet, and fixes her hair — ponytail, slight pompadour. “How do I look?”

Bow gives her a thumbs up.

“ _Okay, Mermista and Bow, if you could stand on either side of her, Frosta, stand in front. I’ll use your helmet cameras to piece together a hologram. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll do._ ”

* * *

" _That was the worst speech I have ever heard…_

" _Hello everyone. My name is Adora. Some of you may know me as She-Ra. But that’s not who I really am._

" _I am from Etheria._

" _Horde Prime is going to ruin everything we hold dear. I don’t know about you, but I do_ not _want to find out what that ‘cleansing’ he talks about is. This world is our home, and I’m not about to let him have it._

" _And I think most of you agree._

" _Some good people I know, are right now working on how we’re going to kick this guy and all his clones off our home world. But we need your help._

" _And the best help you can give right now, is to stay alive._

" _I was born and raised in the Horde. I fought for the Alliance. And ever since the sky broke open, I’ve seen people from both sides, working together, letting old grudges lie for the sake of taking back our planet._

" _We can win this. We are_ going _to win this. In the end, because we are stronger together, standing with the same ground under our feet: Etheria._

“ _She-Ra out._ ”

* * *

“Do you think he’ll be angry?” Frosta asks.

“Oh _yeah,_ ” Bow says.

“Good.”

Adora puts her helmet back on. “Let’s set the charges, and get the hell out. Perfuma? We’re done here. Do you read?”

“ _Mmmh— wait up, it’s Adora. Hey! That was a really good speech! Oop— stop!_ ”

“Perfuma is everything all right?” Adora asks.

“ _Everything is just fine,_ ” Scorpia says smoothly. “ _We’ll call a portal right away. Scorpia and Perfuma out._ ”

Adora looks at Frosta, who is just shaking her head. “That was makeout noises, you guys heard that, right?”

Mermista requests a portal, and as they step through and it closes behind them, then the mission is over.

* * *

_This was a mistake._

Catra wakes with that thought at the forefront of her mind, and feels _dirty._

She sits up, the sheet sliding off her, and brushes Glimmer’s wing aside, where it drapes over her.

Whatever possessed her to put both mattresses in Glimmer’s sleeping chamber was not worth it in retrospect.

She gets up with feline grace and quiet, opens and closes the door noiselessly, then in passing reaches for her jacket and digs out her pack of smokes.

There is good and bad sex, and drunk sex. This was bad drunk sex. Sure, it calms the nerves, but… Catra takes a drag. There is, and will never be, any real connection there.

And if _that_ is Adora’s type, then good riddance. Maybe defecting wasn’t the worst mental deficit of hers.

Catra goes to the toilet, then puts her pants back on; shirt and jacket; sword, gun, glove — that one is a little awkward. The leather isn’t fitted to feliform hands. She grabs her sword and cuts off the gloves’ fingertips which makes it a little better.

Then she walks out through the green force field, and turns left.

She has no idea where it will take her, but if she gets lost, she’ll just ask for directions. Better yet, if she can get started on building a mental map of this place, she’ll be one step closer to… Something… It can’t hurt.

The last vestige of drunkenness leaves her system on the way. The need for another smoke only grows.

She passes a chamber, door open, with six clones sitting in a circle, eyes closed. Communal meditation? “Feel free to join us, little sister,” one of them inside says, without opening his eyes.

She passes a chamber where a clone passes by her, pushing a cart full of laundry. “Excuse me, little sister.”

She passes a door guarded by a pair of clones dressed in grey and off-white body armor, armed with what is unmistakably guns that shoot bullets. They eye her as she walks past. No greeting.

She passes a pair of clones wearing grey coveralls, having removed some wall panels. One of them is operating some kind of data terminal, the other is fiddling with the pipes within. “Pardon the mess, little sister,” one of them says.

The hallway seems to be going uphill, out in the distance. But it never feels as though she is actually walking uphill. Behind her, the hallway _also_ goes uphill. Messed up.

She stops by a window — which can’t possibly be a _real_ window, given the layout of the hallway — which overlooks the smooth planet beneath, huge and pink, with a colorful ring around it.

For some awful reason her brain wants to take a trip down memory lane; back to the academy days.

Catra winces when she remembers how she once got in a fight with Lonnie because of pure childish jealousy. Won it too. Got in _big_ trouble with the teachers.

And then Adora came and found her in the basement, hiding behind the coke boilers. Then _they_ got in a fight. Adora had that scar for months.

It was the first time Shadow Weaver wasn’t there to subject her to… She deliberately thinks of something else. Guns. Goodness, how can one miss going to the range on the weekends so much.

Adora liked shooting too.

In the end, it wasn’t Lonnie. It was that floozy with the wings and mediocre performance in bed.

Catra walks on, running her claws lightly against the wall, impinging shallow scratches in the paint.

“Little sister. Please refrain from scratching the walls.”

Catra spins to see a clone. “Oh, uh; I was lost in thought.”

“Ah, might I recommend you take your thoughts to a meditation chamber?” It’s unnerving to see someone who looks so much like Hordak, with such a dumb look on his face.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“May Prime’s light be with you.”

This one she knows. “And with you.”

Catra walks on. The clone follows.

“What are you following me for?”

“Horde Prime has assigned me to you; you are his honored guest. Whatever your needs may be, he will see that they are met as best as he can.”

Catra ponders this for a moment. “Do you have tobacco?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a plant. The leaves are plucked and roasted, then ignited and the smoke is inhaled to produce a stimulating effect.”

“Ah; Horde Prime forbids the indulgence of narcotics among his flock. You have received an exemption, do not worry.” He smiles.

Catra shrugs and walks on. “So, tell me about this ship.”

“The Velvet Glove is Prime’s flagship, intended as the diplomatic and administrative sister ship to the Iron Fist. We are currently in the upper rotary ring. To conserve power, personal gravity effects are only employed in the spinal superstructure. Each of the eight rings generates its own spin gravity, and contain the plurality of all accommodation, non-bulk storage, and engineering aboard the ship.”

“I understood some of that. Are there maps of this place?”

The clone produces a small white disk. Upon activation, it shows a three-dimensional holographic image of the Velvet Glove. The clone shows how to use gestures to move and zoom the view. Little labels dot the display, and the device can read it aloud, too.

“How come it’s in Etherian?” she asks. “How come _you_ speak Etherian?”

“Horde Prime has the gift of omniglossia.”

Catra nods. “All right, whatever.”

Then she turns and begins walking again. According to the map, she is moving around the ring. At an intersection, she turns and begins walking towards the engine-end of the ship.

“Be advised, most areas in the lower section of the ring are restricted engineering.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They reach a T-intersection. “Why don’t you give me a little tour? Pointing at closed doors and telling be what’s behind them is not a breach of restriction is it?”

“It is not. Follow me, and hear about the height of Horde Prime’s fascinating innovation.”

* * *

Glimmer wakes up, nauseous, and sprints to the bathroom to barf. Mostly bile and that awful yellow wine.

She sits there on the floor, hating herself for a little. A seductress she is not; as it turns out. Ew.

And where even _is_ Catra? She stands up and turns on the shower, hoping to wash some of the _ick_ off. At least that woman doesn’t shed.

She stands there for a long time, wishing desperately for some willow bark for the headache.

There’s a chime; request for entry.

“I’m in the shower!” Glimmer says.

She hurries to dry off in the hot air stream, then hurries into the common room to get dressed. And once decent, sits down facing the green wall. “Come in.”

It’s a Clone. Predictably.

“Horde Prime requests yours and the General’s presence for conversation regarding recent developments.”

Glimmer swallows. “All right. Lead the way.”

* * *

Catra’s little tour is interrupted. “Horde Prime wishes to speak to you and the Queen. A cart will be along shortly to take you there.”

“All right.”

Two clones come walking down the hallway, entering a chamber. “Where are they going?” Catra asks.

“That would be the long-range teleportation interface. Since it is in use, you may watch and be amazed.”

They head there, a large room, with real windows showing the next counter-rotating ring a few hundred yards out in the hard vacuum of space.

On the floor before the window is a green platform, wrought from crystal. Beside it is a console.

One clone stands on the disk, the other operates the console.

Then there’s a flash of green light, and the clone of the dais vanishes.

“Your transportation has arrived,” the clone by Catra’s side says.

Out in the hallway sits a four-wheeled vehicle, with a clone behind the wheel. Almost like one of those little carts rich idiots ride around on, playing golf.

Catra takes the back seat. Upon closer inspection, her driver has faint scarring.

All of the other clones are unblemished.

His mannerisms are less gentle, as well, and he doesn’t make eye contact.

_Is… Is that Hordak?_

“Do I know you?” Catra asks.

“This one is made in the image of Horde Prime; you know horde prime, ergo you know this one.”

A non-answer. Sounds almost rote.

* * *

They meet by the entrance to Horde Prime’s throne room.

Neither Glimmer nor Catra wants to look at the other.

Catra lends Glimmer an elbow anyway.

“Queen, General, I hope you continue to find your accommodations pleasant and restful. If that is not the case, I shall see to that you are accommodated yet differently and more to your liking.” Horde Prime is standing on the floor before the throne, a bit to the side.

They come to a stop a few paces away from him.

“It’s fine,” Catra says.

Glimmer nods. She lets go of Catra’s arm, and steps aside, placing her between Horde Prime and Catra.

“Excellent. Now, I shall like to discuss a recent development.”

The outer walls of the throne room light up; showing vistas of Etherian capitals, all flying the white-and-green banner of the _real_ Horde.

“The conquest is going well. It seems my aberrant little brother were not wholly incompetent.”

The large screen that makes up the backdrop of his throne, almost like the tail on a peacock, lights up.

One panel shows a wanted poster. Another shows a masked individual about to do violence to the onlooker.

One more shows four people in First-Ones’ body armor ascending a staircase.

Yet another shows one, armed with a Toha-Zev rifle, guarding an open door.

One off to the side shows a tiny person-shaped speck wreathed in lightning and fire, backed by a giant many-legged serpentine monster made of plant matter.

But largest and highest, there is Adora, a hologram of her, rising above the horizon, beyond the sky-line of Brightmoon.

Glimmer gasps.

“It seems upon your homeworld, there is a considerable resistance to my rule. Well-organized, technically capable on a level incongruent with the broader technological advancement level, able to move and strike unseen, and several of them endowed with incredible personal power.”

“That’s the remnants of the Alliance, which opposed us,” Catra says. “I might have a few theories on how they’re doing this, but go on.”

“I see. Now, this one — Adora, or She-Ra, as she calls herself — is their leader. Correct?”

“She’s the face of it, yeah,” Catra says.

Then the screen switches to an animated image. The viewing angle is starkly bird’s-eye. A little log cabin in the woods is visible, and outside it, is a little figure in a red jacket.

“Every rebellious movement forms around a leading figure; a beacon of hope. Personal charisma always trumps the strength of ideals. So I am always on the look-out for that little mote of discord, the grain of sand in the eye of peace and order on your beautiful homeworld.”

He turns to face the screen.

“Allow me to show you why it is inadvisable to resist my rule. And at the same time, let this serve as a weapons demonstration for you, General. See what you will have to work with in aiding my conquest. Ah, every crater I have to make in such a pristine planet is truly a shame.”

“ _Wait!_ ” Glimmer cries out.

Horde Prime turns to her.

“You want the weapon, right? The Heart of Etheria? She-Ra is part of it. Without her, it cannot be used. You… You need all of them: the Princesses, the Runest— power-wielders. They are what powers it. You need them all alive — and unhurt! — for it to work. Only then can it unleash… Well…”

“Well what?” Prime asks. “Details, details.”

“It is a weapon with both unlimited range and destructive capability. With it, the whole universe can be destroyed.”

“That was not so difficult, now was it?” Prime says.

The live view speeds up, showing Adora buzzing about, night and day passing twice, and then nothing. The cabin stands empty for at least a full day.

Glimmer falls to her knees.

“Very well. This has been _most_ illuminating. Thank you for your co-operation, Queen Glimmer; I do look forward to more of our conversations. Though; you seem distressed. Perhaps I shall send a hearty meal to your quarters, and give you yet more time to rest.”

Two clones step forward; one offers Glimmer a hand to get to her feet. Then they escort her out.

Catra looks after them, then turns to find Horde Prime having silently stepped closer to her.

“Neat trick,” Catra notes. “It was never a live feed after all. Manipulation is an art, I always say; kudos to you for figuring her out so quickly.”

“I have been on Etherian ground for weeks now,” Prime says. “I only just conveyed my findings there.”

“Weeks?” Catra asks.

“Teleporting the three of you over interstellar distances is time consuming. Pure information travels through my ansible with greater ease than matter.”

“Oh.”

“And,” Prime continues, in the same casual tone. “She’s not the only one who had a reaction. Yours was arguably even stronger; ‘kudos’ to you for containing yourself so well.”

Catra almost takes a step backwards. “Wh— what?”

“Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, quickened breathing, psychomotor agitation. This Adora means as much to you as it does to her.”

“No, she doesn’t. She’s my enemy. Killing her would…”

He reaches out and caresses her cheek with a clawed hand. “And; really now? Your haptic expression says _lover_ , not enemy.”

Now Catra takes a step back. “She— she chose her side. I chose mine. She means _nothing_ to me.”

“You Etherian are all so alike one another. Connections, connections. Strong bonds everywhere. Unable to see how it endows you all with fatal weaknesses.” Prime walks past Catra.

“What are you going to do with me?” Catra asks quietly.

He stops. “Your little ploy of exchanging information for privileges was never going to last you long, General. I _see_ all. I _know_ all.”

He looks over his shoulder. “Now that I can extract the details of the weapon from the Queen; and now that I have proof positive that you would have let me kill She-Ra and deactivate it, just to fuel this vendetta you seem to have against your former lover…”

He resumes walking, ascending the dais to the throne. “What purpose can you possibly serve me? All creatures have a place in my light, no matter how small. Where exactly do you think yours is?”

“I can still aid you in the conquest; please!”

“Then do, but know that one more misstep… Well, I’m sure you can imagine; you are after all, utterly expendable. One last thing: I forbid you from speaking to the Queen. Now run along, little sister.”

Catra nods, and doesn’t linger a second longer than necessary for decorum.

* * *

Second to last smoke. Catra lights it as she walks, hands shaking. By sheer power of will, she keeps her tears in.

She goes wandering in the corridors of the upper ring, for some time — difficult to say how long. Maybe hours. Anxiety tearing at her guts all the while. She has never been so afraid of someone; not since…

Walking in her own thoughts, desperately trying to piece together how she’s going to find a way out of all of this, she finds herself back at their cell.

The wall is ever so slightly translucent from the outside.

Inside, she sees Glimmer pacing.

Testing, she puts a hand on the screen; nothing.

Inside, Glimmer perks up. “ _Is someone out there? Is that you Catra?!_ ”

Catra turns away, and almost bumps into a clone.

“You _shouldn’t be here,_ Catra. Speaking to the Queen is forbidden, by Prime’s orders.”

It’s the familiar one.

“I _do_ know you,” Catra says. “Hordak. How you’ve fallen. And— if you cared to, you’d see I wasn’t speaking to her. I was just looking. What does Horde Prime care, anyway? Doesn’t he have more important things to worry about?”

The clone flinches. “How _dare_ you call into question what Prime cares and worries about; and how _dare_ you give m— _this one_ a wretched _name!_ ” He grabs Catra by the lapels in rage.

Then he shudders, inexplicably, eyes shut hard. And sneezes. Then he looks at Catra, his demeanor _completely_ different. “Little sister,” he says, and from the speech pattern alone, the identity is clear.

“Prime,” Catra says.

“Why do you exhibit such insubordination?”

Catra wants nothing else than to crawl into a very small hole. “I wasn’t, I was just… Looking…”

“Prime _sees_ all. Do _not_ disturb the queen.”

Another shudder. “Pardon my breach of decorum. This one is here to escort the Queen,” Hordak says.

Hordak places a hand on the field, and it vanishes.

Glimmer, standing with her ear pressed against it, almost stumbles.

“Please, Queen Glimmer, come along.”

* * *

Glimmer is led to a different section of the ring. Hordak — because after overhearing Catra and him talk, she can’t think of him as a mere clone; the little details stand out to her as well — opens the door for her.

“Queen Glimmer, thank you for joining me,” Prime says. “I thought you might appreciate a diversion. Step into my trophy room.”

The room is vast; larger than the ballroom in palace Brightmoon, and partitioned into wide hallways by dividing walls.

“This is but the most wondrous artifacts from my vast collection. My personal museum. All of these are taken from worlds I brought into my light.”

“The spoils of conquest, then,” Glimmer says. “And how many thousands are dead for each of these? How many nations have fallen? And how many peoples are bereft of their cultural heritage because of you?”

There’s thousands of artifacts on display. Some exquisite, some natural, some ancient. Living plants under glass bells, ceremonial stone axes, clay tablets with intricate inscriptions, statues of species Glimmer can’t even recognize. There’s books and scrolls and burial shrouds, bones and mineral chunks, taxidermies of animals. Everything.

And in the opposite end, central to the whole collection, is a spherical blue orb of crystal.

“This is the most historically significant of them all,” he says. “This signifies the beginning of my galactic conquest, a million years ago. It was taken from the very first world, outside my home planet, that I conquered.”

He takes it from the hover field in which it is held, and hands it to Glimmer. “Alas, that world is long lost; and its people are extinct. A fate they chose themselves by willfully opposing me after millennia of my gentle rule. This is all that is left of them.”

“So, you destroyed them.”

He kneels, to be at eye-height with her. “They destroyed themselves.”

Glimmer flares her wings and rises two feet into the air. “So that is what you do, huh? Destroy worlds when their people don’t like you.”

Prime rises to his full height once more. “Only when they do so knowingly. Rebellion is like cancer; it must be carefully excised and treated, lest it spreads to the whole. Once it does, euthanasia is the kinder way out.”

He places a hand on the orb. “You know I am searching for She-Ra. I only wish to use this weapon to bring peace and order; destruction is not and has never been my goal.”

Glimmer grinds her teeth.

“However… I cannot bring peace to the entire universe. Not in time. Not to the darkest and most remote corners. Not before the last star is a long burnt-out cinder. In the choice between allowing miserable strife to persist until the end of time, and allowing destruction so that it may cease, I choose the latter.”

“You really do want to rule a pile of ash. Hordak famously didn’t,” Glimmer says. “If you want my cooperation, you will have to take it from me with blackmail and torture.”

“Hm. Very well, then. Here’s an interesting thing I beheld on your Home Planet. Did you know the isles of Mystacor, as they are called, lie abandoned? The prognosis is that they will settle onto the landscape below sometime in the next year.”

A screen lights up. On it, the main entrance to the Mystacor College is visible. Three hooded figures enter, one of them stops to look behind them.

The view freezes, and zooms.

The mans features come into start relief.

“I cannot help but note the familiar resemblance.”

Glimmer tries so very hard to steel herself, to not give this monster another inch of leverage. She can’t. “Dad,” she says.

“Help me lay hands on She-Ra, or the next time he is spotted, I will have him killed.”

Glimmer looks at Prime. “You better pray you win this,” she says, as tears begin running down her cheeks. “Or I will see to it that you answer sevenfold for everything you’ve done to the universe.”

She throws the orb on the floor, where it shatters.

“Bold of you to threaten me so openly.”

He claps.

Four armed and armored clones come in, and escorts Glimmer back to her cell.


	5. Sunflyer, Soothsayer

Mystacor was abandoned early; almost all the mages here are now part of the resistance. There’s just something about those who pursue personal power for a living, that makes them willing to risk life and limb for the greater good.

Soldiers are similar, but with more loyalty hangups.

Now, they use its empty halls as a hideout. The security spells will handily alert them to any Horde intrusion, with plenty of time to pack up and portal out.

“The King said he was down this way,” Bow says. He knows the corridors well, from his numerous visits here, regarding his enhancements.

Adora stops, as they pass from the newer college building, into the older parts, which are carved from the levitated mountain directly.

“Adora?”

She points up. “Safe Travels.”

It’s an inscription in the linear First-Ones’ script.

“And?”

“That’s Swift Wind’s sister ship,” Adora says.

Then she’s running. Bow runs after her.

They reach the chamber; one of the old ornate halls of the grandmasters; lined with statues. The walls are inscribed in minute detail.

There, in the corner, is Micah, Castaspella, and Shadow Weaver.

“Adora, Bow, good of you to join us,” Micah says.

“You three all know Mystacor’s history, don’t you?” Adora asks.

They share confused looks. “Yes?” Castaspella says.

“Okay, Huntara told me once that Mystacor was an archipelago once, right?”

“It was,” Shadow Weaver says.

“Off the coast of the Crimson Wastes?”

“Correct.”

“Safe Travels,” Adora says.

“Again,” Bow says. “I don’t think anyone here understands.”

“Swift Wind landed in the desert a thousand years ago; and what, a few hundred miles away, was Mystacor? Where the name of Swift Wind’s sister ship is inscribed across the old main gate?!”

“That’s actually exactly what we’ve found,” Castaspella says. “With Madam Razz’s work with George and Lance Esquire, we’ve been able to decode much of this writing.”

She gestures. “It tells an interesting story —”

Adora’s communicator chimes.

She picks up.

“Adora, hello,” Entrapta says. “So, remember my projections about our launch window? That as Horde Prime fields a greater and greater presence in the Sola system, egress is going to be more difficult?” Her hair curls and twists in agitation.

“Yes? We agreed it wasn’t much of an issue, since most of the ships coming in are for the planetary conquest?” Adora says.

“Yeah, well, that was before I caught wind of this: that huge collection which is going to warp in pretty soon, along with the Iron Fist flagship.” Entrapta gestures to a screen behind her. “First of all, Primes latest interceptors have better portal engines than the Swift Wind, meaning their super-luminal capability is faster. Second, they’ve just discovered how to _follow_ a warp trail.”

“So, they’ll know where we’re going and arrive there before us,” Adora says. “Fuck.” She looks at Bow. “We’re going. Now.”

Bow takes out his communicator and calls them up a portal.

“Take care, Micah, Castaspella,” Adora says.

“And what am I?” Shadow Weaver says.

Adora shoots her a glare.

The portal opens, and Adora and Bow step through, onto a rocky outcropping on a windswept stretch of coast in the Inner Sea.

Out of the waves, one of the Swift Wind’s pylons rises, and allows them to board.

They both run to the control center, throwing luggage in the hallway. Arriving, they both grab masks, gloves, and seats.

“Call everyone,” Adora says.

A collective conversation opens up. The Runestone wielders: Mermista, Frosta, Scorpia, Perfuma, Spinnerella, Netossa, Huntara, Sweet Bee, and Peekablue. The other notable resistance members: Juliet, Nightshade, Killigan, Lonnie, Kyle, Rogelio, Double Trouble, Melissa, Sea Hawk, Micah, Castaspella, George, Lance, and Razz.

(To think, her entire friend group are all fighting alongside her.)

Bow’s list includes in addition literally a dozen rangers: Nightshade, Bramblepelt, Seneschal, The entire surviving remainder of Wolfclaw’s old scouts including Killigan, Jeff, and a lot of people Adora never met except that one time. Ivy, Fletcher, Oak, Maple, Buck, Fox, and Woodpecker.

Entrapta… She’s just happy to be included.

One by one, the little portraits come alive in the virtual space.

“Hey,” Adora says. “Everyone, this is goodbye from Bow and I. Something’s come up; and I’m so sorry I can’t hug you all goodbye. We’re blasting off, so wish us good luck.”

Someone says ‘ _on three!_ ’ and counts down. Then a chorus sounds: “ _Good Luck out there!_ ”

“Bow?” Adora says. “Put us on an escape trajectory.”

* * *

The Swift Wind rises out of the water, and accelerates hard, straight up, nose first, cutting through the dense atmosphere with supersonic speed; then once the atmosphere thins, they lay the ascent east to add Etheria’s rotation to their speed.

Swift Wind’s reactionless engines, one housed in each nacelle, effortlessly propels them to orbital speeds and beyond.

In Bow’s view, their projected orbit climbs further and further out of Etheria’s gravity well, until it transitions from elliptical to hyperbolic.

They breach the upper atmosphere in minutes, and fly through the orbital occupation faster than an effective response can be mounted. While the Horde has better portal engines, they still rely on reaction-mass based torch drives for real-space travel.

A couple of Horde interceptor spacecraft accelerate, but the difference in acceleration is simply too great; almost a factor of two. Soon enough they cease trying to make intercepts, and burn to re-orbit.

Swift Wind is no slave to the tyranny of the rocket equation.

“We can’t keep boosting like this,” Entrapta says. “We’re going to need to rest the engines soon.”

Bow shuts them off right then, leaving them on a path that’s going to bring them within the orbit of Sola’s innermost planet.

Portal engines are finicky beasts, that thrive best in interstellar space. The one thing they do well within the confines of a stellar gravity well, is jump a ship ahead on its trajectory, as if fixing celestial bodies in place, and accounting only for their momentary gravity.

Even though Prime’s ships have better portal drives, their lacking real-space propulsion are enough to give the Swift Wind its clear edge.

“So, what now?” Adora asks.

“We have a few hours until we’re free from Etheria’s gravity,” Entrapta says. “Then we can begin plotting a jump to Sola. I’ll be honest, she’s not in great shape.”

Stress-energy of activation increases with escape velocity. They could literally blow the drive if they try now. Entrapta understands exactly why, Bow and Adora, only the hard fact.

“Shall we boot up Mara?” Adora says. “I mean, it’s just the three of us, otherwise.”

“And Darla,” Bow says.

“And Emily,” Entrapta adds. She’s grown fond of the household drone.

Adora removes her mask and gloves. “I may be captain, but I think this should be up for vote.”

“Adora,” Bow says. “If anyone knows this ship better than Entrapta, it’s definitely its original Captain. And… She’s your mom. Now you finally have a chance to see her.”

* * *

To ease it, they decide to invoke Mara in the infirmary. Entrapta switches the equipment on remotely, and from one moment to the next, Mara materializes on the bed.

She wakes, gently, blinking, and sits up.

«What is going on? Where am I?»

«Hey Mara,» Adora says.

«Who are you people, and what are you doing on my ship?»

«Yeah, about that,» Adora says. «It’s actually my ship now. You gave it to me, remember?»

Mara pauses, and looks at Adora. «Adora?»

«Hey mom.»

Adora stands from her chair, and helps Mara to her feet. Mara stares at Adora for a moment, in wonder, then caresses her cheek. «It really is you, isn’t it?»

Adora pulls Mara into a hug.

“Uh,” Bow says. “Am I the only one who doesn’t understand a word of this?”

“I think it’s the native First-Ones’ language; I can translate if you want, but my connection with my Runestone is already starting to dwindle.”

* * *

They reach a compromise, linguistically. Darla has been hooked up to Etheria’s linguistic infrastructure for the entire time it sat in the desert, and so Darla can translate.

Bow, Entrapta, and Mara all wear an earpiece, while Adora has the privilege of being bilingual. They take the conversation to the control center.

“So, please, tell me everything,” Mara says.

“First, Razz is okay,” Adora says.

“Oh thank the stars.”

“Second, Light Hope is dead.”

Mara blinks. “That’s… Good.”

“I know she was your friend, sort of,” Adora says.

Mara nods.

“Third, I _was_ She-Ra. The Aegis is destroyed, and She-Ra is dead.”

“Oh. I mean…” Mara looks away, staring into the distance.

“The first time I told you I was She-Ra, you got angry.”

“The first time?”

“Oh yeah, four, you’re dead. Technically,” Adora says, sheepishly.

Mara looks at her hands. “I’m a personality construct?”

“Yeah. Entrapta here built you some proper infrastructure, so you don’t only last a few minutes before resetting and forgetting everything.”

Mara looks at Entrapta. “Thanks”

“You’re very welcome, but you were the one who told me how to do it,” Entrapta says.

Mara nods. “Right, I… Did you add a percent power to the unreality field?”

Entrapta nods, smiling.

“Okay, what else,” Adora says. “Uh, the Stars are back; we’re out of the pocket you put us in.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah, and there’s an alien invasion from someone called the Horde, who we are currently running from.”

* * *

They tell her the whole thing: how Hordak snatched Adora from Razz, two hundred years early, how she was raised in the Horde. Where they are heading and why, what the current state of Etherian geopolitics is…

Mara takes her time to process it all, relegating herself to a corner with a notepad, collecting her thoughts.

Adora glances at her from time to time, from where she sits in the captain’s chair, reading Entrapta’s full report on the incoming Horde forces, and a few other facts she has gleaned from hacking the ansible network.

Then Mara gets up. “Okay, I think I have a plan of action, Madam Entrapta.”

“Yes?”

“I need you to integrate me with Darla.”

“But that will—” Entrapta protests.

“I know the consequences.”

“Mom?” Adora asks.

Mara comes up to Adora, and kneels in front of the chair, taking Adora’s hands in hers. “Adora, daughter mine… My time has passed. I am a ghost, now. This? This is your quest, and I… I feel I could have prepared you better for it.”

“You’re scaring me,” Adora says.

“Listen, I’m not going to stop being _me,_ but in exchange for a bit of my humanity… Darla is rather stupid, all things considered. It — she — lacks a lot of decision-making. She’s also not a person. My personality isn’t going to change,” Mara says.

“I don’t understand,” Adora says.

Mara reaches out and wipes a tear off Adora’s cheek.

“I’ll still be _me,_ sweetheart. I’ll always be your mom, even if I wasn’t really there for you when you needed me. But I’ll stop being a facsimile of a living person, and become what you really need right now: a powerful ally.”

“Uh,” Bow says. “There’s something you should see.”

They all turn their attention to the wall screens. Several portal engine signatures pop up on the view Bow is showing them; sixty degrees ahead on Etheria’s orbit.

“Oh no, we were too late, that’s _them!_ ” Entrapta says.

The first to arrive is a _gigantic_ craft. The telescope is almost at maximum magnification to provide good images.

It is long, sleek, white, and _solid._ It looks like a plain cylinder, with a gigantic torch engine at one end. Miles both in diameter, and length. It looks like it could collide with one of Etheria’s smaller moons and punch a hole clean through it.

“The Iron Fist,” Adora says.

“Oh, we’re in trouble now!” Entrapta says. “If we portal now, they’ll just follow us!”

“Not to mention;” Bow says, and indicates. A few of the smaller crafts jumping in with the Iron Fist, are turning and accelerating.

“My best guess is they are building intercept trajectories, and are going to to jump ahead of us, either to board or shoot us down.”

“My guess is the latter,” Adora says.

“Entrapta?” Mara asks. “Now, would be a good time. Run the integration.”

Entrapta looks to Adora, who nods.

She issues a few commands in the virtual space, and Mara’s form winks out.

A few seconds later, she reappears, with a purple holographic headset floating on one side of her head, and a selection of symbols at her fingertips. Her irises are purple too.

“Interesting,” she says, in modern Etherian.

“Is everything okay?” Adora asks.

“Nominal,” Entrapta says.

Mara disappears, and reappears across the room. “This is going to work out just fine,” she says. “Let me just review for a moment here…”

She disappears and reappears in a hover chair. “Entrapta, I need you to redirect all spare cooling capacity to the reactionless engines and the power generator. We’re only three souls aboard, so you can cut life-support entirely for the time being.”

Entrapta leaps out of her chair.

Over in the corner of the room, her suit springs to life and comes running: exoskeletal legs, and four back-mounted compliant-robotics tentacle arms. It wraps itself around her, and she takes off on roller-skates down the hall to the left nacelle.

They wait with bated breath, and Adora calls up the cooling system stats. Engine temperature begins dropping.

“Now, Bow,” Mara says. “Give us a burn. Get us to Sola sphere-of-influence as fas as you can.”

The ship undergoes significant acceleration.

“So, what’s the plan?” Adora asks.

“We make a jump, and force them to re-do their trajectories, that should give us some time,” Mara says. “Once that is done, we make a polar flyby of Sola, and do a periapsis burn.”

“Why polar?” Bow says.

“In case they decided to intercept us.”

* * *

It’s a few tense minutes as the Swift Wind climbs out of Etheria’s sphere of influence.

Entrapta re-routs the cooling system back to normal, and Swift Wind dumps heat through red-hot radiators.

“Adora, Bow, if you will,” Mara says.

Bow plots the jump, and Adora authenticates it. There’s barely any indication that anything happened, but suddenly Sola is a pinprick of light.

“Now, we decelerate and begin falling,” Mara says.

Bow engages the autopilot, and Swift Wind begins accelerating gently.

“I need to instruct Entrapta in a few things.” Mara vanishes.

“How long is this burn going to take?” Adora asks.

“About an hour.”

“I’ll need to remind her of who the captain is on this ship,” Adora says. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

* * *

The acceleration cuts out, with a little jerk.

“ _Sorry,_ ” Mara’s voice sounds. “ _We need to install an external component._ ”

“External?” Bow asks.

The one-to-one view of the blackness of space outside, gives him the answer.

Entrapta comes floating along outside, propelled in part by tentacle arms, in part by thrusters on her spacesuit. The suit is like a logical extension of her leg’s exoskeleton, merged with standard soldier body armor. The helmet has pigtails mounted externally.

Carried long with her, are three large crates.

Along with her is Mara, wearing no spacesuit at all; seeing as she is a hologram out there, rather than an approximation of flesh and blood.

“How did she make that so quickly?” Bow asks.

“I think she prepared it ahead of time,” Adora says.

Entrapta floats down to the nose of the Swift Wind, and begins removing armor panels, laying bare the hull structure underneath. She reaches for the first crate, opening it to reveal a complicated piece of machinery, which she proceeds to install under the nosecone; before re-placing all the armor panels.

She does the same with the tips of both nacelles.

“Hey Mara, what is that?” Adora asks.

“`Additional active shields. We might need them.`”

Adora shrugs. Entrapta begins heading back to the airlock.

* * *

They finish the burn, and Bow compares his telescope readings now with ones from when Entrapta was out spacewalking.

“They aren’t trying to catch up,” he says. “They’re heading for Sola.”

“All right,” Mara says. “Then we will have no choice but to evade them.”

“How?” Adora asks. “And might I just add, I think you’re skirting the chain of command a bit much, not letting us — not letting _me_ in on your plan.”

Mara blinks. “Sorry. Right, of course.”

She turns to them in the virtual space. “If they intercept ups, they’ll probably either board us or shoot us down. There’s nothing we can really do about that. However, there is one place we can hide.”

“Where?” Adora asks.

“In Sola.”

“Sorry, but that’s just not possible,” Entrapta says. “Even if we had an entire _moon_ to shield us, all that would be is a few hour’s worth of ablation.”

“Then let me clarify,” Mara says, “we are going in through the magnetic northern pole, where the corona is coolest, from there we will chart a course through the cooler chromosphere down to the magnetic south, and emerge there.”

Entrapta gasps. “That’s _not_ impossible! Amazing!”

“They’ll burn their telescopes if they try to look for us, and with powered shields, we should be able to survive there, if we dump our internal heat reservoir completely.”

Entrapta says. “The numbers do align. However, if we hit a prominence there, the powered thermal shields will fail and we’ll melt within minutes.”

“That’s why I’m leaving the final decision to you two,” Mara says, turning to Bow and Adora. “Bow, it’s going to be a harrowing flight. We’ll be in there for at least three hours, and you’ll need to be alert the whole way. I’ll do what I can to assist you, but with plasma on that scale, there’s only so much I can do.”

Bow nods. “While we dump heat, I’ll fly a sim, if you can give me one.”

“Not a good one, I confess,” Mara says.

“Why so slow?” Entrapta says.

“Because if we go any faster, Bow won’t be able to react to changes to the photosphere topology. One hundred miles per second is about the limit, given my models of Sola’s surface activity, and beyond that we’ll be pushing” Mara says. Then she turns to Adora. “I want to emphasise, this has _never_ been done before.”

Adora frowns. “I don’t see that we have any other choice. We just need to make sure they aren’t waiting for us at the south pole.”

“There’s no danger of that; it’s obvious by now that we’re swinging by north, has been for some time.”

* * *

They engage the portal engine once more, and the black starry sky is replaced.

Half the sky is fire. The filters in the view protect their eyes, and the mirror finish on the Swift Wind protects the ship, but neither does anything to shield the four of them from existential terror.

“Okay, we’ve got incoming,” Bow says.

Indicators start springing up: a dozen or so interceptor craft, little white needles when viewed with the telescope. No doubt not eager to do any boarding with this much sunlight in their face.

“The pole is below us,” Mara says.

“I See it,” Bow says.

And then they begin the burn.

Bow rolls up his sleeve and carefully injects himself with a mild stimulant solution.

The interceptor craft continue on their trajectories, seemingly accelerating away from the Swift Wind, no doubt doubly reluctant to follow them into the outer layers of a star.

The high-acceleration burn terminates a few minutes later, and their fall through begins. Bow aligns the Swift Wind nose down, as aerodynamics are about to begin being at least somewhat important.

Entrapta sits glued to the thermal readings.

And all Adora can do is look on.

“All right, we’re clearing the corona,” Entrapta says.

“Pulling up,” Bow says.

He switches the engines over to reaction mode; imparting momentum to ambient gas — or in this case ionized hydrogen — for propulsion, and more importantly, _lift._

The energy savings in doing so are considerable, even in the incredibly thin hydrogen plasma, and the craft begins to shake a little with the turbulence.

“Now it’s just three hours of this,” Bow says.

“Stay sharp, I’ll guide you through it,” Mara says.

The next three hours are at once tense and mind-numbingly boring. Adora passes them by looking at the swirling sea of plasma, and the dull red sky of the corona above them.

At no point do they even get close to hitting a prominence; Bow has ample time to react to the few that do form in their path.

The sky becomes black above them once more, no longer filled with the radiant heat of the corona.

They reach the magnetic south pole, and Bow points the nose upwards. Initiating the escape burn pushes them all down in their seats.

And then a few minutes of burning later, Bow shuts off the engines and engages the radiators at full throughput, dumping the incredible amount of heat the craft has accumulated.

They’re in the clear, almost. Now it’s a coast out of the gravity well, and a jump to interstellar space.

Adora gets out of her chair, as Bow, covered in cold sweat, takes off his mask and gloves.

“Hey,” she says. “Good job.”

“I am _never_ doing that again.” Bow says. “And if I knew what this was going to be, going in, I’d have taken my chances with the Horde.”

Mara snorts.

Then Bow begins chuckling.

Adora starts laughing.

* * *

Then of course, there’s the bad news.

They make the jump to interstellar space, unmolested.

“We don’t have enough fuel left to get all the way there,” Entrapta says.

“What?” Adora asks.

“The portal engine relies on a special kind of consumable part to operate. The ones in it right now are almost spent, and I can’t fabricate the replacements, since I don’t have the necessary element. We’ll need to make a planetary stop somewhere and pick up more.”

“Okay, where?”

“Fortunately, I now have pretty much unlimited spoofed access to the Horde ansible network,” Entrapta says. “So I’ve located a promising spot. Evidence indicates it is used by smugglers and other undesirables in the Horde empire; and projections would indicate that it is fairly rich in Thulite, the mineral we’re after; but not rich enough to warrant strip-mining.”

“What’s the bad news?” Bow asks.

“Seismic instability, and… It used to be a Horde-controlled planet, once, long ago. Now it’s a been bombarded from orbit. There’s _nothing_ there, other than Thulite. With the possible exception of acid rain.”

“And smugglers,” Adora notes. “Who might not be friendly.”

“On the upshot, it leaves us margin of error. From there, we still have enough to jump to my second-best candidate, in case we don’t find any Thulite.”

“Bow,” Adora says. “Plot us a course. And let’s get some rest while in transit. Entrapta, can you send a message back to Etheria? Tell them we made it out?”

Entrapta salutes. “Right away, Captain.”

* * *

Giving her handler clone the slip is easy for Catra. She doesn’t need them anyway; the can’t get her any more smokes, and with the map in hand, she can find her own way.

Keeping track of time is difficult. There’s clocks on board, but they only

And this day or night, she finds her own way back to Glimmer’s cell.

Inside, Glimmer is sitting by the table, playing solitaire to pass the time.

Catra’s access has been cut off, and she’s been assigned different sleeping quarters. Just a single sleeping chamber and an attached even smaller bathroom.

Catra opens a portal, bypassing the green wall.

“Hey,” she says, stepping through.

“What the—” Glimmer begins. “Is that a _portal?_ ”

Catra shushes her.

“What are you doing here? Didn’t Horde Prime _specifically_ tell you not to talk to me? What do you think he’s going to do to you if he catches you here?”

Catra looks away.

“Come, sit.”

She does.

“So,” Glimmer says. “Sorry about last… Night, I guess.”

“Don’t be. It is what it is.”

“No,” Glimmer says, “I mean, I tried to seduce you.”

“What?”

Glimmer shrugs. “In my defense, I was drunk; but I thought maybe I could get you to… Come on over to my side; reconsider joining the Horde again.”

Catra chuckles. “Really, you think I’d turn coat for some nookie? It wasn’t even good.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Have I ever told you,” Catra says, “That you’re the last person I’d ever want to be stuck out here with?”

“Rude.”

“But… It helps; having someone to talk to. Someone from home.”

“Homesick?”

Catra nods. “It’s fucked up that I am; Etheria… I was never happy there.”

“Home isn’t about happiness,” Glimmer says. It’s a line.

Catra shrugs. “I guess I’m just a homeless stray.”

“And I’m a Queen without a kingdom.”

“I’m going to join up, I think. Maybe… Maybe he’s right, Prime. His whole ‘every creature no matter how insignificant has a place in Prime’s light’ spiel.”

Glimmer frowns. “You know, if that is what you really want, then I am not going to stop you at this point. Good luck.”

“This’ll be the last time we talk,” Catra says.

Glimmer nods.

“Before I go, can you tell my fortune with those things?” She gestures to the cards.

Glimmer chuckles. “I’m a terrible fortune teller. But sure.”

She picks up the deck and shuffles it overhand a few times. Then she lays out a hand of seven cards to her left, a hand of seven cards to her right, and then three rows of three cards face down.

She begins with the first three. “Your past.”

One, a beautiful necklace with five coins threaded on it, hung around the neck of a squalid, crippled woman. “In the spirit, Five of Drachms, upright. A great loss. A mindset of scarcity.”

“Adora,” Catra says. “And… Everyone else.”

Two, a man leaping a barricade with seven knives thrown after him, some missing, some not. “In the mind, Seven of Daggers, upright. A lie believed. A crime unpunished.”

“Well, a lot of things, really,” Catra says. She looks at her portal glove.

“Catra, this is all a trick, you know that, right? I’m just handing you keywords, and you’re filling in the blanks.”

“Whatever, just go on.”

Three, a man slouching on a throne, with a long gold sceptre laid across the armrest. “In the body, Lord of Staves, reversed. Ruthlessness, impossibly high standards.”

Catra chuckles. “Bullshit, you’re making this up.”

“See what I mean?” Glimmer says. “And no, _you’re_ making this up.”

Glimmer begins work on the middle row.

One, a man lying against a gate, ten blades in his chest. “In the spirit, Ten of Daggers, upright. A painful end.”

Catra doesn’t say anything.

Two, a man with a faggot of sticks on his back, climbing a hill. “In the mind, Ten of Staves, reversed. Burden, overwhelming responsibility.”

Catra rubs her forehead.

Three, a woman with a club fending off six unseen attackers, only their canes visible. “In the body, Seven of Staves, reversed. Exhaustion, resignation, surrender.”

Catra gets up. “All right, whatever.”

“It’s said to be bad luck to leave a reading,” Glimmer says.

Catra rubs her face. “All right, give it to me.”

One, a golden chariot. “In spirit Wheel of Time, upright. What is justly deserved.”

Two, a castle. “In the mind, The Keep, upright. Chaos.”

Three, a skeletal man on a horse, holding a scythe, “In the body, The Reaper, upright. Endings.”

“All right. Yeah. I’ll get what’s coming to me, it’ll be shit, and then I’ll die. Thanks for the reading, Sparkles.” Catra turns away.

“Catra wait!”

But she’s already opening a portal and stepping out.

Glimmer looks at the cards. Then she gathers them up and goes to the trash bin, raising her hand to throw them out with force; hesitating… Then she reconsiders, and goes back to playing solitaire.


	6. To Antioch, This is it for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: battle violence

Catra re-treads her footsteps, heading to the lower part of the ring, and lingers by the teleporter room. She’s… Unsure why, herself. A half-formed idea; a half-baked plan that was never going to work.

She turns a corner and nearly bumps into a clone. She looks up, recognizing Hordak’s sullen facial expression immediately.

“ _You,_ ” he says. Then he shudders and jerks. “Ah, there you are, Little Sister. Please, accompany me to the ceremonial hall.”

* * *

Catra enters the room, which looks like the throne room. Hordak walks ahead, to the center, stopping by a pool of water.

The galleries by the dome-walls of the room are lined with acolytes. Behind them, a true image of the outside star-dotted blackness of space

“Horde Prime? You summoned me?”

Prime is standing with his back turned, looking at the peacock-tail screen.

It shows a map of a planetary system.

“Catra, I need your input on something. A spacecraft of unknown make and model just escaped your home star system, despite my efforts to stop it.”

“Well, how did it escape?”

“It would appear they flew into the local star to shake off my pursuit. How they survived, I can only theorize, but the remnants of portal engine signature was detected, leading into interstellar space.”

“Sounds… Daring?” Catra suggests.

“Indeed. How can this be?”

Her ears sweep back. “I don’t know.”

Prime turns to look directly at her.

“I _don’t!_ ” she insists. “Me and Adora, we’re enemies, have been for a long time now. I don’t have some kind of rapport with her; I can’t tell you what she’s planning.”

Prime frowns. “And yet, you seek to protect her, do you not?”

He walks up to Catra. “You have been speaking to Queen Glimmer; against my command. Have you not? Out of Pity, perhaps?”

Catra looks down. “I— I said my goodbyes. I don’t intend on speaking to her ever again; I— I am preparing myself to join the Horde, fully.”

“Sentiment. An insidious poison. Commendable resolution. However… As your first act in my service, you will speak to Queen Glimmer once more. Extract what information you can from her, about this ship’s departure.”

“That won’t work, she doesn’t trust me; she’s not going to give me anything.”

Prime merely looks at her. With crushing intensity despite his neutral expression.

Catra wants to curl up into a ball and cry. “Believe me! Adora is my _enemy;_ the best thing in the world for me would be if she _died._ I’d tell you where to find her if I could!”

He reaches out, caressing her cheek. “Look at you, poor Sister. Your Adora causes you nothing but suffering. But you can rejoice, in my service, I will free you from this pain and heartbreak. Allow me to demonstrate.”

He turns to Hordak, and walks up to him. The height difference is small but there.

Hordak falls to his knees.

“You spoke to our Little Sister, did you not, brother? What was it she said to you?”

“She… Gave me a name. Forgive me, Brother, please; cleanse me of this affliction.”

Catra takes a step back.

Prime crouches down to Hordak’s level. He lifts Hordak’s chin with a clawed finger. “Those who seek freedom will be granted it.”

“ _Devotion shall be rewarded with deliverance from darkness,_ ” the choir chants, startling Catra.

Prime rises, Hordak follows. A gentle hand pushes him towards the pool, and Hordak turns to cast one last glance at Catra.

Then he steps in, and the pain is immediately apparent on his face. He keeps walking, despite it, each step heavier than the last, and eventually he grunts with each footfall, grunts turning to yells, turning to screams.

He remains still for only so long, before he begins thrashing about in pain.

“I am sorry that I must hurt you so, brother,” Prime says.

“ _The pure show their worthyness of Prime’s Light through suffering,_ ” the choir begins chanting.

Hordak goes under, screaming and gurgling over the din of chanting.

It continues for far too long.

Then, it ends, abruptly. The pool drains, and Hordak is left at the bottom, curled up. The recession in the floor that made up the pool rises to level out.

Prime walks up to Hordak, drenched and whimpering, and extends a hand; shaking, Hordak grasps it, and is pulled to his feet.

“Behold, the purest among you!” Prime announces.

The gathering of acolytes turn from orderly choir to bedlam. Yelling, whooping, screeching.

Catra takes another step towards the exit.

Prime turns to her. “Do what I _tell_ you,” he says.

Catra runs.

An acolyte follows her.

* * *

She reaches Glimmer’s cell.

“Such haste, little sister,” the Acolyte says. “Allow me.”

He touches the green wall, and it vanishes.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Glimmer asks. She’s eating dinner: gruel on a tray.

Catra steps in. “Give us some privacy?”

The acolyte bows, and the wall re-materializes. Catra opens a small portal, just large enough to look through, confirming indeed that he is retreating down the hall, a considerable distance.

Catra walks over to Glimmer, and draws up a chair beside her, close.

“A spacecraft left Etheria recently, evading Horde Prime’s blockades. What do you know about it?” she says in a hushed tone.

Glimmer hesitates. “Only that it can’t possibly be anything other than the Swift Wind.”

“Adora’s on that ship, isn’t she? Coming to rescue you?”

“It’s hers. She’s the Captain,” Glimmer says, quietly. “Oh no.”

Catra pinches the bridge of her nose, and gets up. Glimmer grabs her by the tail, and Catra winces.

“You _can’t_ tell him,” Glimmer says; and despite the steel in her voice, the raw fear is audible. “You _know_ what he’ll do if he catches her.”

“Adora’s on her way _here._ I don’t have to _do_ anything, I just have to _let. it. happen._ ”

She pulls her tail away, and turns to walk away.

Glimmer leaps out of her chair, gliding in front of Catra. “And do you think Prime will _reward_ you? As soon as you’re no longer useful to him, he’ll _discard_ you like the gutter trash you say you are.”

“That’s _his_ problem — I _always_ find a way out, always _have!_ ” Catra yells.

Glimmer flares her wings, blocking nearly the entire exit. “So— what, you’ll just _run away_ again? If he captures Adora, he’ll use the Heart of Etheria to wipe out _everything!_ So please! Where? Where will you run?”

Catra wants to make a rebuttal.

“ _Where?_ ”

“Shut up! I— I’ll figure something out!”

“Is that what you really want, Catra?”

Glimmer steps forward, teary-eyed. She takes Catra’s hand, even as Catra backpedals.

“Please, Catra. For once in your life, why don’t you take a chance? Why don’t you do _one_ good thing?”

Catra jolts back, as if electrocuted. “Don’t talk to me like you know me! You don’t know _anything_ about me!” With feline grace, she darts past Glimmer and hammers on the wall. A few seconds later, it opens, revealing the Acolyte.

She darts away, and the wall dematerializes, leaving Glimmer alone again.

She falls to her knees, and realization takes hold, followed by worry, and then tears.

* * *

The view outside the ship is a dizzying one. Inter-planetary jumps are so brief you barely notice them; this is a twenty-hour jaunt through a portal folded in on itself.

“How are you feeling?” Mara asks.

Adora sits in the captain’s chair, thinking. She looks up. “Fine, I guess. I feel… Less useful than usual. With Bow and Entrapta and now you.”

Mara summons a chair with a wave of her hand. “A good captain knows when to delegate. So what are you thinking about?”

“How to go about this whole operation.”

Mara reaches into the virtual space and draws out the visualization Adora had been inspecting, overlaying it into reality as a hologram. It’s the Velvet Glove, in all its miles of length and girth, spindly and oddly elegant. Eight counter-rotating rings around a strong spine housing spaceports at the stem and engines at the aft end.

“We don’t even know where she is; the schematics that Entrapta dug up are deliberately vague… I— my best idea so far is to use one of Hordak’s bombs, and deliver it by portal, but…”

“Hordak’s bombs?”

“Really big explosion for a really small bomb; completely mechanical. Entrapta knows the details.”

Mara looks away. “Ah, of course. Uranium-based nuclear fission, I bet. That could work. That’s actually not a bad idea, although…”

“… We don’t know where in the ship Glimmer is held.”

Mara nods. She puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I know what it’s like to have a friend in peril.”

Adora nods. “We used to be more than friends, actually.”

“Oh?” Mara leans back. “She’s a Queen right? Like, actual royalty? What’s that like?”

Adora blushes. “It’s kind of a weird question, coming from you, _mom._ ” Adora says. Then she looks down. “It— it didn’t work out between us.”

“Oh. And now you’re off to rescue her. Dicey. Well, fair’s fair. You know Serenia?”

“Your old comrade?”

Mara nods. “We had a thing together; I had a lot of other lovers, too, but her and I were the only really persistent romance in the Grayskull squadron.” She looks into the distance, wistfully.

“Mom, please,” Adora says.

“Hey, I might be your mom, but you have to remember I’m only ten years older than you.” She looks away. “It feels weird every time I remember that,” she mutters. “I— I’m sorry. This is really awkward, I know.”

“It’s fine,” Adora says. “We haven’t known each other for my entire life; hopefully we’ll have plenty of time to catch up and grow close.”

“Well, provided we win,” Mara says, “and provided I won’t be stuck to this ship forever… I reviewed the recordings of you speaking to me, before.”

“Oh?” Adora says,

“I just… Wanted to let you know I did that. And thank you. For bringing me back; even if I am just a personality construct.”

Adora gets up. “I’m going to go to the gym and clear my head. I… Could use a spotter, with the weights.”

“I’ll join you,” Mara says, “just as soon as I go tell Entrapta not to poke around in what she’s poking around in right now— one moment!” And then she disappears.

* * *

Catra enters the throne room, walking with resolute steps.

“Horde Prime, I… I have good news,” she says, without even a mote of joy.

Prime turns to her.

“That ship is carrying She-Ra. It is coming here, to rescue the Queen.”

Prime smiles. “Is that so?”

“A virtual certainty. The ship; it belongs to Adora, she is the captain of it. And her and the Queen… They are close,” Catra says. “Their connection is a weakness we can exploit.”

Prime claps. Clap, clap, clap.

“You have done _well_ little sister. Soon, She-Ra will be mine, and with her; Etheria. All because of you.”

He gestures broadly. “For your devotion, you shall be exalted, raised above the wretched creatures of your homeworld.”

Catra looks away.

“Is that not what you want?”

“Yes, Horde Prime,” Catra says.

* * *

_Think, Catra, think._

The first thing she does, is gain legitimacy. Shea heads up the ring to the outfitter, greeting every clone she sees with a serene smile and calling them ‘brother.’

“Hello, Little Sister,” the acolyte there greets her.

“Brother, since I am so graced by Prime’s light, it does not do that I wear these dark hues,” she says and gestures to her clothing.

“Indeed, exalted one. What might this one provide for you instead?”

“Since I am of military stature, and my purpose is to aid in the invasion, perhaps you might fit me for a suit of body armor?”

“Of course. How practically-minded; and showing such solidarity with those who fight for Prime’s glory.”

* * *

She spends the wait heading back to her own room for a quick shower, and then to a hairdresser — because of course there’s one of those on board. To make the trip around the ring, she requisitions a scooter. She gets her hair cut considerably shorter; shoulder length rather than the unruly mess that hung to between her shoulder blades.

One hour later, she is dressed in white and grey; a rather good fit, considering it was adapted from a suite made to fit the towering figure of Prime’s clones. By her side, still, her sword, and with some help from the tailor, she had the portal device fitted on a right glove instead.

A helmet hangs from her belt, forehead protector relegated to her new backpack.

Next, she reaches the armoury. It is guarded by two clones dressed much the same as her.

“Permission to enter, brother?” she says.

“Of course, Little Sister.”

Inside, an armor-wearing quartermaster staffs the front desk.

“Brother,” Catra greets.

“Little Sister. How may I help you?”

“I require a service pistol, befitting my office.”

“You are not expected to see front-line combat.”

“No, but expectations are the first casualty in war. If I am to aid Prime in conquering Etheria, it is likely that I will have to set foot there, no?”

The clone frowns. “This one would not know. One moment.”

He heads in between the weapon racks, and returns with a weapon, holster, and three magazines, clearing it and placing it on the table in front of Catra. A pistol. Grey, lightweight, magazine fed, high capacity. The spare magazines fit in the holster.

He goes off again, and returns with tools and a new set of grip panels, better sized for Catra’s hands.

“There is a practice range in the room next door; please, observe proper firearms safety.”

Catra goes there, and shoots through all three magazines. The trigger pull is heavy, but no heavier than a double action revolver. The recoil is beastly. A decent weapon.

She returns. “Can I get armor piercing ammunition for this?”

* * *

She gets her hand on a handheld data assistant, much like the First-Ones’ communicators, and downloads the entire report library from the in-progress conquest of Etheria.

Skimming through it all takes far too long, but she finds what she’s looking for: Entrapta’s fingerprints. All over the tech the resistance are using.

* * *

Catra heads up one of the spokes, to the spine, and gravity goes away, which is nauseating on its own.

From there, she passes through circular hallways to the next ring, and down through a spoke once more.

The whole ship looks the same. It is only her map which lets her go where she needs.

In this case, the network intelligence headquarters. From where the ansible network is monitored — or rather, the network of ansible network monitoring facilities across the galaxy, is monitored.

There’s no guards here. Catra goes up to one of the Acolytes standing by a workstation. “Hey.”

“Little sister, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I need to know if any unusual access has been made to the ansible network from the Sola-Etheria system.”

“One moment.”

She waits for over a minute.

“Indeed, there has been some irregular activity.”

“And if, say, I wanted to directly contact the responsible party?”

The clone holds out a hand. “Give me your data assistant, I shall download the appropriate data onto it.”

“Do you also have a manual on how rebellious elements circumvent the security systems of the ansible network?”

“Why, indeed we do. Very keen of you to take such an interest in cyber-security, Little Sister. This one is honored to help develop skills that will benefit Prime.”

“Thank you for your praise, Brother.”

* * *

Figuring out how to do it covertly takes the better part of a day.

From a portable data terminal in a dark corner of a store room, Catra bounces her access signal off the ansible transponders, so as to evade detection from anyone on the Velvet Glove.

Then she sends a message, addressed to the Swift Wind.

* * *

They arrive at their destination system without issue, relatively well-rested. A quick burn puts them on a hyperbolic approach trajectory to the star, and a minute-long jaunt puts them inside the actual planetary system.

Their target is a moon, orbiting a small gas giant. Bow manages the orbital maneuvers necessary to massage their path enough with familiarity and ease.

Entrapta has spent time on the fabricator making space suits for all of them, and time in the vehicle bay fixing up the four-seat speeder.

Now, however, she comes into the control center, floating, propelled by occasionally grabbing and pushing herself with the four tentacle arms on her back. She is wearing some kind of harness, no leg-exoskeleton.

Adora looks up. “Entrapta, why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

“Oh, sorry. It was hot, and this whole space is exquisitely climate controlled, so there’s really no reason to wear anything except for what’s necessary to maintain modesty.”

Adora rubs her face. “Right. Of course. That makes perfect sense. And the floating?”

“The artificial gravity is personal. It’s much more convenient for me to not be restricted by it. Also my hip hurts. Also, we got a message, through the ansible network, addressed to the ship.”

Entrapta takes out her communicator and does something.

Adora’s communicator chimes. She takes it out and reads.

> _Ad,_
> 
> _Am aboard the Velvet Glove._
> 
> _Need to know which system you are in._
> 
> _— Cat_

“Catra,” she says.

* * *

They all gather in the control center.

Bow isn’t wearing a shirt, either.

“Is everyone just going to stop wearing clothes?” Adora says.

“I’m not,” Mara says. “But then, these aren’t real clothes. Maybe I should go for something skin-tight?”

Adora groans.

“What is this about, other than dress code?” Bow asks.

“Catra just got in touch with me,” Adora says. “She says she’s on board the Velvet Glove, and she needs to know where we are.”

“… That sounds like a trick,” Bow says.

“I thought so as well, at first,” Adora says. “That she’s joined up with Horde Prime; it fits her character to do that. But…”

“But what?” Bow asks.

“It seemed… I don’t know, urgent. And she used the nicknames we had for each other when we were younger. She’s never used those while we were… Enemies.”

“This Catra,” Mara says. “Do you think she has turned against Prime?”

“I’m hoping it. Question is, is that enough to justify jeopardizing our mission?” Adora says.

“It’s up to you,” Bow says.

Adora nods. She turns to Entrapta. “The link is set up?”

Entrapta nods.

Adora takes out her communicator.

> _Cat,_
> 
> _I hope this isn’t a trick._
> 
> _Antioch._
> 
> _— Ad._

The little check-mark informs her it has gone through.

“All right,” Adora says. “Let’s get our bearings in this system. We need thulite, and we need it fast.”

* * *

A portal opens, and Catra steps through.

“Catra?” Glimmer says.

“Hey, Sparkles.”

“You look tired; I see you decided to join up?”

Catra snickers. “That’s what _he_ thinks.”

“What—”

“Remember that one good thing? We’re doing it now.”

Catra steps aside, and gestures to the portal.

Glimmer grabs her deck of divination cards, and dashes through. Out in the hall, a scooter is waiting for them. Catra gets on in front, and Glimmer steps on behind her, grabbing hold of her belt.

“So what, you think they are just going to let us take a spacecraft for a joy ride?”

“No. I have a plan. Well, half a plan. I’m really hoping the other half takes care of itself.”

“Oh the great strategic genius of the Horde has half a plan.”

“Shut up, you can stay in your cell if you want.”

They reach and intersection and Catra stops; she peeks around the corner, then returns to Glimmer. “Do you have any spells that can muffle the sound of a gunshot?” She holds out her pistol.

Glimmer gestures a circle, and a rune appears; imprinting itself onto the gun.

Catra racks the slide, making no noise at all, and holsters it.

Then she gets on the scooter and takes the turn aft, running directly into a pair of acolytes. “Little Sister, why is the Queen out of her quarters?”

“She asked for a tour of the facilities, I saw no problem with that,” Catra lies.

The two acolytes exchange glances. “This is a breach of decorum. The Queen is to return to her cell at once, and you are to report for correction.”

Catra looks over both of the acolytes. “Neither of those are Hordak, wouldn’t you say, Sparkles?”

“Neither of them are, yeah, I agree.”

Faster than an eye-blink, Catra draws her gun and shoots both of them in the head. The gun makes absolutely no noise.

Glimmer blinks for a bit as the two clones hit the ground, brains splattered down the corridor.

“Why don’t you want to kill Hordak?” she asks.

Catra shrugs. “I… Entrapta’s alive. I figure I owe her a chance to get him back.”

“The scooter is too slow,” Glimmer says. She steps back and casts another spell, and Catra feels herself become almost weightless.

“What—”

Then glimmer grabs Catra in a bridal carry, “Where are we going?”

“All the way to the end and then right, up a sixth turn of the ring!”

She kicks off. With a hum she casts the rune for the First Flame of Elm and the resulting rocket-engine-like exhaust sends them flying down the corridor.

The sprinklers go off behind them.

The oncoming noise of it causes several acolytes to turn and see, just in time to jump out of the way.

The two armed guards posted by what she now knows to be the armoury, of course react, by drawing weapons and diving for cover. Glimmer and Catra pass directly over them with deafening noise and a belch of flame.

Aiming over Glimmer’s shoulder, between her wings, Catra lays covering fire against the two guards, but one of them defies the suppression and shoots back.

Glimmer shrieks, and they tumble.

Catra lands in a graceful roll, comes to a stop kneeling and aiming, nails the shooter twice, center mass. The range and the body armor, versus her armor piercing ammo.

“Sparkles, are you hit?” Catra yells.

“He winged me! I’m okay, but I can’t fly now! Fuck!” Glimmer yells back.

Catra pulls her to her feet.

“I hope that wasn’t Hordak,” Catra says. “Run!”

They run. Catra pulls Glimmer along by the hand, so fast she has to compensate with her wings to not fall.

They reach an intersection, and a group of guards round the corner to intercept them.

“Halt!” One of them yells.

Catra opens a wormhole, and she and Glimmer leap through it, emerging behind them.

“Now would be a _very_ good time to cast some spells!” Catra yells.

Glimmer hops into a glide, and uses the moments of reprise to cast the Second Flame, dousing the corridor behind them in liquid fire.

The sprinklers activate, but can do nothing against the magical inferno. Their pursuers stop, one of them shoots but misses. Narrowly.

They reach the T-junction, and Catra turns up-spin. Behind them, she hears approaching footsteps. Many.

Chancing it, she opens another portal, giving them a boost ahead by a few hundred yards.

“In there,” Catra says, pointing.

Glimmer is too out of breath to reply.

A bullet whizzes past them — this one _starkly_ supersonic. The rifles have come out.

Then they reach the door — locked, of course — and Catra portals them inside.

Glimmer collapses against the wall.

“Are you okay?” Catra asks.

Glimmer nods, panting.

“All right, I know you’re out of shape, but I need you to weld this door shut. We need time.”

Glimmer gives a thumbs up, then she staggers over in front of the door, while Catra darts over to the control panel.

“What is the meaning of this?”

In the room is a single Acolyte. One Catra duped into warming the teleporter up for her. She rewards him with a bullet.

The green crystal pad that is the teleporter, is humming with energy, ready for deployment.

Catra puts her data assistant into the slot on the control panel, and the language changes to Etherian.

“Call Swift Wind,” Catra says.

And now, its a waiting game. The quantum link travels along the super-luminal gateways. Antioch is far, but not that far. Hopefully.

“Wait,” Glimmer says, “this is a teleporter isn’t it? You’re saving me?”

Catra looks over her shoulder, and sees the door forged shut, glowing dull red. The temperature in the room has risen several degrees, but somehow the sprinklers hasn’t activated.

“No. I’m saving Adora. As long as you’re here, that idiot is never going to stop coming. Prime’s not playing his trump cards yet; I can tell. We’re on easy street, so far. But if the Swift Wind comes here, they are going to be walking into nightmare town.”

“Oh. And here I thought you cared about me.”

“Not one iota.”

There’s banging on the door.

“They’re going to bring out a torch and undo all your hard work,” Catra says. “Get on the teleporter.”

Glimmer steps up.

Catra engages the containment field.

“Wait, what about you?”

Catra looks back at the door. “All I do is hurt people, Sparkles. Besides, someone has to operate this thing, and… I don’t want it to be for nothing; I’m going to go buy you some time after I send you off.”

“Catra, don’t. Adora does it too. You’ll get killed.”

Catra winces at the mention of Adora. She looks back at Glimmer. “You’re the one who told my fortune. So… I guess what I’m saying is, this is it for me. And I’m okay with that. I doubt anyone in the entire universe is going to miss me for more than a few minutes anyway.”

“Catra, that’s not true—”

The call goes through. “Hush, Sparkles.”

Catra redirects it to her earpiece.

* * *

Scanning the entire sky by infrared telescope is a process taking several hours, but also the most direct way to identify any and all ships within two hundred and fifty million miles. They do one on both sides of the gas giant, before Adora is willing to even consider landing on the once-habitable moon.

Bow and Entrapta are playing an abstract board game, involving some kind of hidden information component and territory capture in a three-dimensional grid. Neither of them are any good, but even just learning the rules took them an hour together.

Adora is reading — there’s over ten years worth of First-Ones military trade periodicals in Swift Wind’s data banks. Who knew all standing in the way of her being a book worm was her congenital inability to read anything other than First-Ones’ script?

“There’s an incoming communication link; over the ansible network,” Mara says.

“Patch it through,” Adora says immediately, and springs up from her chair.

“ _Hey, Adora._ ”

Adora’s breath catch in her throat. “Catra?!”

“ _Don’t sound so happy to hear my voice, I might tear up. I’m sending Glimmer to you, by teleporter. She’s going to arrive in free space at — these coordinates. Relativity means I can’t tell you when exactly, so stand by. I don’t have a space suit for her._ ”

“W-wait—” Adora looks at Mara, who nods, and gives a thumbs up. A little bit of purple text reads: _I have the coordinates._ “— wh-what? Catra what is going on? Glimmer is with you?!”

“ _I’m on the clock here. Listen: don’t come here, no matter what. Horde Prime will be ready for you; I told him more than I should have, Glimmer can give you the details._ ”

“Catra, I don’t understand, what is going on?”

“ _You’re such an idiot. They’re cutting the door now._ ”

Adora turns to Bow and gestures vaguely. He throws on a mask and gloves and immediately gets the Swift Wind moving into position.

“Catra!” Entrapta yells.

* * *

“Entrapta?” Catra asks.

“ _Is Hordak there with you? Can you send him too?_ ”

There’s desperation in her voice, one Catra has never heard before. She looks up at Glimmer.

* * *

“ _No, Entrapta, Hordak isn’t with us; I couldn’t find him. But I’m staying behind to buy you some time. I— I guess I’ll try to look for him. And if I find him, I’ll try to send him as well._ ”

“Catra no!” Adora yells. She spins to face Entrapta; furious. “ _Entrapta, what have you done?!_ ”

“Sorry!” Entrapta howls.

“ _Adora, go easy on her. I’m staying behind to buy time and cause some well-earned mayhem. You need to take Glimmer and get away, you hear me?_ ”

“Catra!” Adora says. “I am _not_ giving up on you!”

“ _You’re going to have to. Please, Ad. Just this once, do as you’re told. I’m sorry, for everything._ ”

* * *

“All right,” Catra says. “Sparkles, if you have some kind of spell that helps with high-altitude flight, cast it now.”

Glimmer obeys promptly. Then gives Catra a thumbs up.

Catra programs the teleporter to wrap her in a protective bubble — not that it is going to last more than a few seconds.

“Hey,” Glimmer says.

Catra looks up.

“For the first good thing you’ve ever done in your life, you’re really making the rest of us look bad,” she says, and smiles bittersweet.

Catra gives her a salute, and initiates the teleportation sequence.

There’s a brilliant flash of green, and then the teleporter pad is empty.

Catra turns to the door. A shower of sparks is coming through; they’ve cut about two-thirds of the way they need to get in.

She checks her gun, reloads, draws her sword.

Through a peep-hole sized portal she checks the other side of the door. There’s about twenty soldiers out there, and a team of technicians cutting the door with an oxygen torch. No Hordak.

She opens a portal connecting the crushing void of space outside the window, with the other side of the door, effectively spacing the entire breach team

The sparks immediately cease.

“Interesting,” Catra mutters to herself, admiring the twenty-two clones tumbling away into nothingness.

This is going to be one hell of a last stand.


	7. The Star Siblings, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: battle violence

Horde Prime does not lose his composure. He _never_ loses his composure.

Not even when one single Krytisian is drawing a bloody, blazing, and _expensive_ trail of destruction through his flagship, using some sort of wormhole-opening ability.

No, at some point, luck will turn against her. It always does.

* * *

Glimmer appears free-floating in the void of space, surrounded by naught but stars. She barely has time to get her bearings before the green field around her dissipates, leaving only her altitude-protection spell to stand against six times the pressure difference it was written for.

Breath is pulled forcibly from her lungs, and water begins boiling off her eyes.

There’s a noiseless flash of light above her, and then a few seconds later, something envelops her, closing off against the void.

Sound returns in the form of loud fans, and Glimmer finds that she can breathe again; she’d fall to her knees if not for the fact that she is weightless.

Something takes hold of her hand.

“Glimmer, are you okay?” Adora asks.

She blinks though the pain and looks around, seeing Adora and Bow, both in space suits, tethered to the walls.

She gives a thumbs-up and coughs. “What—” she coughs again “what’s with the floating?”

“Inertial dampers got shot on that last burn,” Bow says. “My fault.”

Adora holds on to her, while the elevator begins moving, and the floor comes up to meet them.

* * *

Without gravity, the Swift Wind’s hallways all sprout handrails down the center.

Adora and Bow both struggle out of their suits — it was a lot easier to put them on with the aid of artificial gravity.

Glimmer just drifts there, slightly shell-shocked.

“Let’s get you a room,” Adora says, pushing herself along the handrail, “and some rest; and hydration. Is— is that a bullet hole in your wing?”

Glimmer turns in the air to face her. “Adora… She saved me. You were right about her. That she had good in her.”

“I— I— What happened? Please, I need to know!” Adora says.

Glimmer shakes her head. “I told her to try to do one good thing in her life. She chose that to mean staging a jail break, getting me to a teleporter, and then staying behind to distract Horde Prime and buy us time to get away.”

“Catra, right? This is Catra we’re talking about? Steals-entire-cities, kills-in-cold-blood, tried-to-murder-everyone-we-love Catra.”

Glimmer nods. “She said she was doing it to save _you._ We… Had some time to talk.” She smiles, on the verge of tears. “I think if things had gone differently, we could have been friends.”

Adora pulls Glimmer into a hug, and Glimmer breaks down. She looks at Bow, who remains at a distance. His expression is difficult to read. Then he grabs hold of the handrail, and pushes off, floating past them.

Just then, Entrapta manages to restore the artificial gravity, and the gravity alarm goes off, before the three of them are gently deposited on the hallway floor.

* * *

In the mess, Adora paces, still wearing the second-skin body suit to be worn under a space suit. Glimmer sits on a bench.

“I mean, everything you say makes sense logically, I just… Can’t get over the fact that she turned coat,” Adora says. “And that… You don’t really think she’s dead, do you?”

Glimmer shrugs. She nurses a cup of tea. “I don’t know anything anymore, really. But it sure seemed like she was going to make her final stand.”

She looks around. Adora keeps pacing.

“There’s a lot of things I didn’t have time to say, back home,” Glimmer says. “I’ve had a lot of time to think too.”

Glimmer reaches out and grabs Adora’s hand as she passes by. “I’m sorry.”

She looks up at Adora.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch,” Glimmer continues. “I listened to Shadow Weaver over you, and she was wrong; she was smart, and competent, and well-argued, and she was wrong. I should have listened to _you,_ my mom would have done that! I— I—”

She bursts into tears. Adora sits down next to her and pulls her into a hug.

“I thought I might never see you again, and that you’d think I was some kind of tyrant; I nearly destroyed the world, and I was stuck there on that ship with that monster Horde Prime; and the whole time he was threatening all of you back home, and, and…”

“Shush, it’s okay.”

Glimmer chuckles, through the tears. “We got drunk together, Catra and I. She was going to turn, so I tried to seduce her, and it was awful.”

Adora pauses. “What?!”

“I was so scared. Ever since mom… I’ve been so scared of messing up, of losing, that I went ahead and gambled everything. This… This is all my fault.”

Adora pushes away from Glimmer. “No, listen. There’s a lot of things you did, but plan to destroy the universe was not one of them. You were manipulated. This is what that feels like.”

Glimmer wipes her eyes. “I missed you guys so much.”

“I really missed you too,” Adora says.

“This is going to sound weird, but I think we did the right thing, breaking up,” Glimmer says. “It was nice but… We’re not all that compatible. I hope you understand.”

Adora nods. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

They sit a little. Peace and quiet, familiar surroundings.

“So… You actually slept with Catra.”

Glimmer grimaces. “Don’t remind me. Then only way it could have been worse was” if she _shed._ She looks into her tea. “He hates me, doesn’t he?”

“What, Bow? No! No, it’s just… He feels responsible for… Things not working out.”

She nods. “He shouldn’t.”

“You… Really hurt his feelings. He gave up being a ranger to help me; he really believed he could make a difference that way. I know how much it stings to choose between what’s right and the people you love.”

“Sorry.”

“But no, he doesn’t hate you. He’s been piloting the Swift Wind this whole mission; and he has pulled some insane stunts. All in the name of rescuing you.”

“I need something stronger than tea,” Glimmer says.

“No you don’t. Don’t drink just to cope; my mom says it’s bad for you.”

“What, Mara?” Glimmer says. “You fixed her?”

“Entrapta did. We didn’t just rush after you in the middle of am invasion from space. I had to make sure we’d have a planet to go home to.”

Glimmer connects the dots. “I’ve only been on the Velvet Glove for a few days. How long was it for you?”

“Weeks. We’ve been proliferating the Horde’s portal machines and fabricators; near every government on Etheria is in exile, like Frosta did when Hordak invaded Snows. It was hard to do it all without She-Ra—”

“What happened to She-Ra?”

Adora blinks. “Oh right. You don’t know that. So, we went to Beast Island, and that place fucks with your perception of time; we found your dad, there.”

“I know. How is he?”

“He’s good, all things considered. And then we also found Entrapta, but you also know that. She’s on board.”

Glimmer nods.

“On the way back we called Spinnerella and learned you had gone off to, well… I went to the Crystal Castle and tried to talk Light Hope out of using the Heart. It went… Poorly. In the end I had to destroy the Aegis, and the explosion killed She-Ra. For good. Light Hope is dead too, so there’s no-one to activate the Heart now.”

“I’m sorry,” Glimmer says.

“Don’t be. It was the right thing to do. I— I should have done it along time ago, really. Anyway, Light Hope opened up the world-prison, and let Horde Prime in.”

Glimmer nods. “You keep telling me not to be sorry, and then you just heap on the horrible things that happened because of what I did,” she says, sarcasm dripping.

Adora snorts. “Anyway, when Entrapta’s gotten the ship fixed up, we’re going to a moon in this system, to pick up a mineral we need to get our portal engine working again.”

“Sounds good,” Glimmer says. “Can I help?”

* * *

The timer runs out on Catra making a repeat performance. If Entrapta is devastated, she doesn’t show it.

It’s a quick burn and an instantaneous jaunt to the moon, then a circularizing burn. They do one orbit to scan the surface, and pick a place to land.

Touchdown is rough. Mostly because a world where the oceans have been boiled away by orbital bombardment has _crazy_ weather patterns.

They file into the vehicle bay and get in the speeder, Adora, Glimmer, Bow, and Entrapta.

They’ve packed everything they might need; and all wear general hazard suits — space suits, really but with a lot more features. Food, water, medicine, pressure tents, combat drones, and guns. Lots of guns.

Their target is a ravine, sixty miles east.

The dunes of grey sand, occasionally interspersed with the odd enormous circular patch of black glass, make for one of the bleakest landscapes any of them have ever laid eyes on.

One of the notable features, one which Glimmer spots in the distance, is an artificial structure; the gutted husk of a tall, once-white, spire.

“What’s that?” Glimmer asks, pointing, as they speed past.

“A spire,” Bow says. “They’re part of Horde Prime’s conquest strategy. Propaganda machines.”

“This was once a Horde colony,” Adora says.

“Do… Do you think Etheria might end up that way?” Glimmer asks.

“If you don’t stop him, yeah,” Adora says. “It might.”

“And that will be all my fault,” Glimmer mutters.

“No—” Adora says.

“Yes,” Bow concurs. “It will.”

“Hey, don’t be a dick,” Adora says.

“I deserve it,” Glimmer says.

“Don’t you start!”

“I don’t like this conversation!” Entrapta declares. “If it goes on, I am going back to the Swift Wind and staying!”

The remainder of the ride, they complete in silence.

* * *

They reach the ravine, and make a stop within walking distance of it. “I’m going to go scout,” Bow says. “You guys stay put, and be ready.”

The canopy opens, letting in the howling winds. He grabs his rifle and quiver, and jumps out. Then he goes around to the rear, and opens the now significantly larger cargo hold, and takes out a glider.

The spindly flying machine is little more than an engine, a power source, and a set of folding wings. With a run-up, he lets the engine kick on at a steep angle, and jumps on top. Aided by the ground effect he takes flight, unsteadily in the gale.

Two spherical drones, melon-sized and much more combat capable, follows him into the sky.

They watch as he flies off, gaining altitude, and eventually veering off north.

“So,” Glimmer says. “Entrapta, I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

Entrapta looks at her, and waves, smiling. “Hello, Glimmer. It’s nice meeting you.”

Glimmer looks down. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save Hordak.”

“That’s okay,” Entrapta says. “By which I mean, I am not okay, emotionally, but there is no practical way to remedy it. I… I had hoped I wouldn’t live to see him return to Prime.”

“You had?”

“He’s immortal. It was inevitable that I would grow old.” She looks out the window. “I’m starting to feel it already. I— I don’t take very good care of myself. Let alone the risks associated with my work.”

Glimmer puts a hand on her shoulder. “You have my sympathies.”

Adora opens the canopy. “I’ll just take a quick look around the perimeter.”

“Why?” Glimmer asks.

“You never know what hides in the sand. Remember the Wastes?”

Glimmer shudders. “You know, I had happily forgotten about _that_ whole incident.”

Adora nods. “That’s why I’m the captain.”

She grabs her Yala-Zev, and heads out. The canopy closes, leaving them in silence.

“You’re a sorceress, right?” Entrapta asks.

* * *

Adora finishes her sweep of the perimeter, randomly shooting suspicious-looking piles of sand a few times, even as the wind builds new ones every moment. She looks up at the cloudy sky, annoyed that the stars aren’t out.

Her thoughts drift to Catra.

_No. She’s gone. Let it go._

A tear rolls down her cheek. She goes to wipe it away, and her gloved hand bumps against her helmet visor.

“Bow? Come in,” she says.

“ _Hey Captain._ ”

“Finding anything?”

“ _It’s hard work flying in this weather. I think there’s a settlement down in the Ravine. Difficult to tell._ ”

“Any other ships?”

“ _Not that I’ve seen._ ”

“Stay safe.”

“ _Always._ ”

Adora heads back to the speeder.

Glimmer comes out. Her wings are phasing through the material of her hazard suit. They are, after all, made of the innate magic of angels, rather than flesh and feathers. Physical, but only barely. The bullet hole is healing too, it seems.

“Hey,” Glimmer says, and comes up to her.

“What’s up?”

“Entrapta asked me about some sorcery things; now she’s taking notes.”

“She does that.”

Glimmer takes in the vista and the howling wind. “This place sucks.”

“Bow says there’s a settlement up north.”

“Really?” Glimmer says. “What do they eat?”

Adora shrugs.

“He’s mad at me.”

“Yeah, I’ve never seen him like that,” Adora says. “I guess… He threw himself into his work to not think about you. First organizing the resistance — he basically became my adjutant — and then the rescue. He never took time to process what had actually happened. He missed you, a lot.”

“And you?” Glimmer asks.

“I lost She-Ra. I _had_ to do some soul searching; it was that or go insane.”

“Oh.”

“There has to be a way I can make it right again.”

Adora shakes her head. “Look, sometimes you lose people. I should know. I mean, I’m not saying that’s what’s gonna happen, just… Sometimes you hurt someone so bad, that there is no making it right. And the only thing is to accept it and move on.”

“I need to apologize to him, properly,” Glimmer says.

“Yeah, but we’re on a mission. Bow can be professional, and so can you. Or am I wrong, soldier?”

“Yes ma’am,” Glimmer says.

“That was a joke,” Adora clarifies. “I don’t actually— You’re the Queen. I’m not even a General anymore.”

Glimmer shakes her head. “I’m no Queen here. And I don’t even know if I have a nation to return to. You’re the Captain; I’m just a sorceress.”

“ _Hey, I need some backup here._ ”

Glimmer springs into action; she brings her injured wing around and patches the hole in it with a spell, then kicks off into the windstorm and casts the First Flame of Elm for speed, following the waypoint on her visor.

Adora runs for the speeder, its canopy opening. “Adora!” Entrapta yells.

“I heard it! Take the steering! I’m manning the gun!”

“Roger!”

* * *

Glimmer finds Bow, flying with the wind in an erratic patter, and dives to his altitude, matching speeds.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“There’s something out there, something big; it ate my drones. I saw a light below and flew towards it.”

“Yeah, don’t do that.” Glimmer does a little pirouette in the air to scan the skies, like her mother taught her. “Can you shoot and fly?” she asks.

Bow twangs the wire connecting his belt to the flyer. His rifle is hanging by its sling across his chest. “Already did.”

“Then let’s turn the tables. I’m gonna get us some light.”

She casts a rather complicated, and _immensely powerful_ light spell, creating what amounts to a miniature sun. It rockets skyward from her hand, gaining in intensity, until the overcast night becomes day for miles around.

“I see it,” Bow says, and shoulders his rifle.

Glimmer follows his eyes, spotting a dark shape gliding past in the far distance. Her first thought is that it’s a bird of prey. But then it becomes apparent that it is _much_ larger.

“Dragon!” she yells.

Bow shoots, but the beast begins dodging even before he pulls the trigger.

It swoops in behind and above them, then dives.

“Evade!” Bow yells, and banks away hard.

Glimmer lets herself drop.

The beast dives after her.

It’s an easy trick; with her smaller weight, and her greater thrust-to-weight ratio from her magic, she can pull out of the dive far later.

She turns over, to look back at her pursuer.

The dark shape becomes blindingly illuminated from within, revealing itself to be a gigantic bird — almost owl-like. And on top of it, a rider.

The rider throws a weapon, a spinning blade, and Glimmer has only a split second to dodge, lest it would rend her wing.

Below them the ground is rushing up, and Glimmer turns to prepare to exit the dive, only to see the blade curving back around for a second pass. She dodges it again.

“Okay, now you’ve done it,” Glimmer says.

She flares her wings, and casts in quick succession a levitation spell on her self to counter the pull of gravity, and then another First Flame. In a split second she has halted her momentum, and in a split second more, reversed it.

Her pursuer pulls up, but Glimmer follows, dodges a swipe with a claw as big as she is, and gets around the back of the beast.

The rider, sitting in an elaborate saddle, tries to throw her blade again, and although the angle is poor, the blade itself homes in, and Glimmer barrel-rolls to dodge. Then before the weapon can return, she throws out a sleep spell, knocking the rider unconscious.

No longer holding on, the woman falls off, and Glimmer catches her. The beast flies on, realizing only a second too late what has happened, and deciding to circle back around to retrieve its master.

Glimmer descends with the unconscious woman in her arms. As the beast closes in she throws up a wall of illusory fire, which nicely deters the stupid animal. She lands, surrounded by a false inferno, and lays the woman down in the dark sand.

More like a girl, really. Orange curls and soft face of someone who has yet to reach the full beauty of her womanhood.

“Now who in the world are you?” Glimmer mutters. “And what in the world are you?” she mutters, looking through the shield of flame at the giant owl-like creature.

* * *

Adora scans the skies, seeing only Glimmer and Bow’s indicators on her visor. They race along the ridge of the ravine, and Adora sits behind a double-gun weapon that is basically two Toha-Zev’s side by side, and capable of automatic fire.

Suddenly the sky lights up, and Adora spots a dark shadow closing in on Glimmer and Bow.

Adora traverses her weapon, and takes aim.

Then something grabs her, and she is pulled off the back of the speeder, forcefully enough to knock the air out of her lungs.

She lands hard, and rolls, but gets up almost immediately despite her bruises, shouldering her Yala-Zev. “Show yourself!” she yells.

Something moves out the corner of her eye, and Adora ducks under a whip of some kind. She reaches up in the same movement, and grabs hold of the weapon, pointing her gun at the source.

“You move, you die,” Adora says.

Her assailant freezes. It’s a young woman, by her stature, dressed in a cloak that billows in the wind, and with her face covered in a mask. The whip is an extension of an artificial arm.

“Same goes for you,” someone says behind her. “Drop your weapon.”

Adora obeys, and lets go of the whip-hand.

“So, what is Horde agents doing in Antioch?” the voice behind her says. A man appears, white of hair and beard, with a deep tan; one eye covered in some kind of metal eye-patch, cloaked like the other one, and carrying a rifle, pointed at Adora.

Adora looks up in the sky, to see the aerial battle play out, and end with a ball of flame descending to the ground on the other side of the ravine, while the now glowing bird-beast tries with distress to figure out what to do.

“ _Bow, Adora, it was a big bird with a rider. I have captured her with a spell, but the beast won’t leave me alone._ ”

“That big bird, is it yours?” Adora says. “And is its rider a friend of yours?”

The man with the rifle steps forward. “What did you do?!”

“She’s our hostage,” Adora says. “My airborne friends won the engagement. Call off your bird-creature, and we can negotiate.”

“We don’t negotiate with the Horde,” the woman with the telescoping arms says.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Adora says. “We’re not with the Horde.”

Adora keeps her cool, while she sees Bow sneak up behind her captors.

“And why should we believe you?” the woman says. “You’re too well-equipped; nobody but the Horde has that kind of weaponry.”

True; the rifle is made of wood and steel, and would seem right at home between the guns made by gunsmiths back on Etheria — Horde or Alliance. Someone familiar only with that level of tech wouldn’t be able to tell Prime’s conventional slug-throwers, from First-Ones’ holographic projectile guns.

“Ah,” Adora says. “Well, the galaxy is a big place; I’m sure we’re not the only ones with high tech, I mean, you came here in a spacecraft, right?”

Bow comes up behind the man, and puts a long dagger across his throat. “Drop your rifle or die,” he says.

The man, wisely, obeys, and Bow kicks it away in the sand.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention,” Adora says. “That rifle you’re carrying? I doubt it can shoot through my suit.”

Nonchalantly she bends down and pics up her Yala-Zev again, pointing it at the other one.

“So, what are you going to do?” the woman asks. “Kill us?”

Adora shakes her head. “Call off that bird, it’s harassing our friend. Your rider is unhurt; I promise you, we are not the Horde, and unless you want us to be, we are not your enemy either.” To make the point, she lowers her gun. “We’re here for the Thulite, for our portal engine.”

The two share a look, then the woman turns and whisltes with her fingers, a sharp, loud, melodious call that reverberates through the landscape, unnaturally.

In the distance, the bird does a loop-de-loop, and begins a slow glide towards them.

“We’re here for that too,” the man says. “Glory —” he points a thumb at the bird monster making its approach “— needs them to fly us to the next star system.”

“Great,” Adora says, “then maybe we can help each other. Entrapta, if you could bring the speeder back around; Glimmer, can you get the rider back to us?”

“ _Roger._ ”

“ _Already on my way._ ”

“I’m Jewelstar,” the man says, stepping forward to pick up his rifle. “This is my sister Tallstar. Glory’s rider is our little sister, Starla. We— We call ourselves the Star siblings; we’re on the run, for now, but we used to be heroes.”

He continues over to Adora, and hols out a hand. Adora shakes it.

“It’s very good to meet you,” Adora says. “I’m Adora, Captain of the Swift Wind, this here is our Pilot, Bow,”

“Charmed,” Bow says, sheathing his dagger.

The speeder coasts in, and the canopy pops open, allowing Entrapta to egress on her tentacle arms.

“That is Entrapta, our mechanic.”

Glimmer comes gliding in, holding the rider in her arms.

“And that’s Glimmer… Our sorceress.”

Glimmer lands, and Jewelstar rushes to her, taking Starla from Glimmer.

“What happened to her?” he asks.

“Sleep spell. She should be unhurt,” Glimmer says. Then she casts a spell, and Starla wakes with a start. Jewelstar nearly drops her.

“ _Fuck!_ ” she says. “Where’s Glory?”

Jewelstar lets her down, and doesn’t need to point to the gigantic glowing bird.

Starla looks around. “Up, would someone fill me in?”

* * *

The portal glove is in Catra’s opinion, the greatest weapon Hordak ever invented.

Elegant in its simplicity, staggeringly lethal in execution.

As she cheerfully spaces over a hundred clones worth of strike teams — always making sure Hordak isn’t among the casualties — Prime of course gets the idea to try to do it to her.

Blast doors close off sections of hallway and rooms, and the air is vented.

Every time, safety is just a portal away.

Though, she does conserve its use. Whenever there’s an opportunity to use firearms, she takes it. The silent gun Glimmer made for her is absolutely her favorite sidearm so far. Smooth-shooting, reliable, and accurate. With her natural talent for stealth, coupled with the odd portal to facilitate unpredictable movement, she kills with ease and grace, utterly unseen. Mowing her way through strike teams until they start having their rear guard face backwards.

Superiority brings the realization that she could be doing more.

So she raids an armory, and spends a few minutes of break time while she hides from the bedlam she has created, to pry bullets off cartridges and use the powder inside to make pipe bombs.

Strips of cloth dipped in gun oil and powedered with gunpowder serve nicely as quick fuses, which can be lit through portals from a safe distance.

Using them, she blows holes in various things that look important.

It is probably around then that Prime stops playing nice.

The first Catra sees of it, is that an entire wing of the ring is purged of air; she escapes narrowly.

Said section was emphatically not evacuated. Several acolytes were hiding in lock-down.

The second she sees of it, is the appearance of soldiers in much more comprehensive armor; one designed to withstand vacuum at the very least. And handgun bullets. She has to think fast to get her hands on a rifle with armor-piercing ammunition.

But before she gets to see whatever Horde Prime has in store for her next, her luck turns.

The portal glove malfunctions, first at an innocuous time, failing to open a portal.

Then at a bad time, leaving her with a bullet hole in her calf. Straight through.

She bandages it best as she can, but from there it goes downhill, quickly.

An unexpected explosion rips through the corridor and she doesn’t quite dodge cleanly enough.

She takes a pair of pistol bullets to the side; soft body armor preventing penetration, but bruising her rib. The pain is distracting.

Her pistol misfires, and she takes grazing wounds return fire…

Two hours, six hundred and ninety nine clones, and untold billions in damages to the most advanced spacecraft ever bult, after her rampage began, it ends.

In a store room she drags herself into, after having failed to dodge a rifle salvo that tore through her legs.

Her enhancements keep her from bleeding out immediately, but both her knees are out, armor-piercing bullets having punched straight through nerve, flesh, tendon, and bone alike. She can barely wiggler her toes.

Wincing, she lies down and considers her next move.

She takes off the portal glove and puts it on the metal floor; then she takes her sword, and uses the pommel to beat the delicate tech into scrap. It would be bad if Prime figured out how to build one for his troops.

And then she waits; either to slowly die from blood loss and exhaustion, or to be found. Briefly she considers falling on her own sword, but no. It’ll be good to see Horde Prime’s face one last time, just to spit in it. Yes. That will be a fitting end.

Spitting in the face of those who held power over her. _That_ is her way.


	8. The Star Siblings, Part 2 (Final)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: injuries, insects

They continue north, towards the settlement in the ravine. The Star Siblings ride Glory, and Adora and crew ride the speeder.

Reaching the settlement, it becomes quickly apparent that the speeder cannot come along. They leave it under active camouflage, guarded by a pair of combat drones.

It begins raining. A mildly acidic rain — enough to burn unprotected skin with prolonged exposure, enough that all the freshwater is poison.

The Star Siblings join them.

“I thought you were going to fly down there on Glory?” Adora asks.

“They don’t like enclosed spaces like that,” Starla says, pulling her waxed cloak closer around her face. “Ever since we made our escape, they’ve been claustrophobic.”

“Oh no,” Adora says. “Poor Glory.”

They bring everything they might need, and head down on foot, by a long and narrow path full of hairpin turns. The inside of the ravine looks like every other part of the landscape: burnt and blasted.

* * *

Glimmer takes the rear, with Bow.

“I sure am glad my wings still work, now that my powers are out,” she says to Bow walking in front of her. The drop is steep. “You’re not bad on that glider.”

“Thanks,” Bow says. “I’ve done a lot of simulation hours. It’s too useful, mobility-wise, not to master.”

“Yeah.” Glimmer says. “Flying’s good, but I miss teleporting. Remember when I learned how? On that trip to Mystacor? All those elaborate pranks we came up with.”

“Castaspella told me once she still has nightmares,” Bow says, smiling.

“And every time she came close to catching us, we’d just _poof_ out of there.”

Bow sighs. “That was a long time ago. A lot’s changed since.”

“It has,” Glimmer agrees.

* * *

“Chico nut?” Starla says to Adora, offering a little brown snack.

“The rain’s getting on it,” Adora says.

“Yeah, it’s Zesty. Tallstar says it’s not dangerous, so long as you don’t try to slake your thirst in it. And don’t get it in your eyes too much.”

“Starla, don’t just go offering our food to strangers,” Tallstar says, in front.

Starla sticks her tongue out at her older sister.

“Tallstar, don’t discourage Starla from making friends; we’re short on those right now,” Jewelstar weighs in from up in front.

“So, you seem to be more in the know than we are,” Adora says. “What is this settlement we’re going to?”

“It was once a mining camp. But the veins are running low,” Jewelstar says. “Now it’s just an emergency stop for desperate travelers.”

Adora looks back at Entrapta, who is walking along, her exoskeleton supporting a gigantic backpack which her tentacle arms peek out from. She’s reading something on a handheld screen, oblivious. “Our intel must be dated, then,” she says. “We heard it was a good-ish place to resupply.”

“Where did you hear that?” Tallstar asks.

“We hacked Horde Prime’s ansible communication network.”

“What does that even mean?” Starla asks.

Adora shakes her head. “Honestly, I think only Entrapta knows, but please don’t ask her, she’ll just talk about it for hours. You said you’re on the run?”

“From Horde Prime,” Starla says, venom in her voice.

“This used to be a decent place to resupply, a haven for travelers,” Tallstar says. “That was a long age ago. Prime took offense, conquered, and this is all that’s left. This is what he’s going to do to our Home World very soon, now.”

“Why aren’t you fighting it?” Adora asks.

“There’s no fighting him once he gets rolling,” Jewelstar says. “We’ve already lost just about everyone who could help us. As much as we want to fight, we’re just three people. Now, every day we just manage stay alive, is a victory.”

“Horde Prime is invading my home world right now. I plan to fight him off.”

“If he’s already there, it is already too late,” Tallstar says. “If you’re smart, you’ll run away, like we’re doing.”

“I’m not. Running away, that is, although people call me an idiot sometimes,” Adora says. “We already managed to save Glimmer from his _flagship._ I like our chances. You know what, I bet I could fit you out with our secret weapon; I mean, depends on how much load and bulk your Glory can carry.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Jewelstar says. “We’re not heroes anymore. Now we’re just refugees.”

“I used to be a hero too,” Adora says. “I had an eight foot tall alter-ego with a shapeshifting gun. I sacrificed her to prevent a universe-destroying weapon from going off. I’m sorry, but compared to that, Horde Prime is not some insurmountable obstacle. He’s just a guy with an army and a lot of spacecraft to put it in.”

“And mind-control,” Tallstar adds. “Don’t forget the mind-control.”

“Wait, what?”

“It’s his most dangerous weapon. Somehow he just… Changes people, makes them come to see things his way,” Jewelstar says.

* * *

The mining town is just a collection of sheds fashioned from corrugated sheet metal, all of it heavily corroded from the acid rain.

Rather than scour the mining town’s tunnels for Thulite, Entrapta activates a device from her pack, which over the course of a few minutes, manages to find them a deposit.

Then she takes out a grotesquely powerful jackhammer, and darts down one of the tunnels.

The others just wait outside.

“She’ll have that in well in hand in a few minutes,” Adora says.

“You guys work quick,” Tallstar notes.

“What is the secret weapon?” Starla asks.

“Starla, don’t,” Jewelstar says.

“Our secret weapon is actually a collection of things,” Adora says. “It’s a way to establish a decentralized production and transportation network, along with a military doctrine for asymmetric warfare using primarily trained civilians.”

“And here I was expecting some kind of really big gun,” Tallstar says.

“Are you still offering?” Starla asks.

“Starla,” Jewelstar says.

“Jewel,” Starla says. “We vote.”

Jewelstar dissents, and is voted out two against one.

“All right, you two,” he says. “But we’re not getting fancy.”

* * *

As Entrapta leaves, Glimmer turns to Bow. “Bow, can I talk to you for a moment? Away from the others?”

Bow turns to Glimmer, whose wings fold meekly behind her back, even as she stands with the projected confidence befitting of a Queen.

Bow answers by heading away from Adora and the Star Siblings. Glimmer follows.

Once they are comfortably without earshot, he stops and turns to her. “So. Talk.”

Glimmer takes a deep breath. “Listen. I know you’re angry with me, and I deserve it. I really do… I abused my power as Queen, and in doing so, I pushed you and Adora away when I — when Etheria — needed you most. Needed _us, working together,_ the most.”

She fidgets. “I’m not sure I’m ever going to come back from that. And if you want to stay mad at me for that, then… I’ll find a way to live with that. And maybe we’ll never be friends like we used to.”

Glimmer looks away. “But I am not going to stop trying to make up for my mistakes. I’m not going to pretend I’m paying penance so things can go back to the way it was before. I owe that to all the people I’ve hurt.”

She looks up at Bow. “I’m not going anywhere, anytime soon. So when— no, _if_ you’re ready, one day, and feel like you want to be my friend again. Then you’ll know where to find me.”

They stand there, in the slowly falling acid rain, on a dead planet.

Bow reaches out and takes her hand. “Okay,” he says, with a little smile.

She chuckles a little. “I also had the thought, that maybe I should just straight up abdicate the throne, so I’ll never have the power to banish people ever again. And as an added bonus, I’d never have to do all that awful paperwork again.”

That gets her a laugh.

“ _I don’t know if any of you are within blast range, but… Fire in the hole!_ ”

Then there’s a tremor in the ground.

Above, on the sheer rock face that makes up the eastern side of the ravine, a low, rumbling crack can be heard.

“ _Rock slide!_ ” Tallstar yells. “ _Take cover!_ ”

Glimmer grabs Bow’s other hand as well, and — by now almost reflexively — casts the First Flame, and takes off, dragging Bow off the ground by his arms, and flying straight for the tunnel Entrapta went into.

The others are sprinting for it as well.

* * *

They make it inside, and then a deafening cacophony echoes in the tunnel, snuffs out the light, and fills the air with acrid mineral dust.

“All right, round of names everybody, if you have more than a bruise, speak up,” Adora says.

It is pitch black.

“Bow.”

“Glimmer.”

“Starla.”

“Tallstar.”

“Jewel—” he coughs “— Jewelstar.”

Adora turns on the light in her helmet, and Bow and Glimmer does the same. Bow hands out torches to the Star Siblings. Six little cones of light in the dark tunnel.

“Glimmer, get us some ambient light,” Adora says.

The whole tunnel blooms with a soft radiance.

“So, what do we do now?” Glimmer asks.

“We need to find a cross tunnel to another shaft, and get out that way,” Jewelstar says.

Adora holds up a hand. “Entrapta, come in.”

“ _I hear you._ ”

“That explosion just triggered a rock slide up here. We’re trapped in the same tunnel as you.”

“ _Oh. that’s unfortunate. Did anyone get hurt?_ ”

“Nothing other than a few bruises. How’s the Thulite coming?”

“ _It wound’t be economically viable to mine this, but for our purposes, it’ll do._ ”

“Excuse me, Adora,” Tallstar says. “But you don’t seem to take the fact that we are _trapped under ground_ seriously!”

Adora looks up. “Oh, right.” She turns away. “Mara? Come in Mara; Adora to Swift Wind.”

“ _Hello, Adora, what can I do for you?_ ”

“I need you to use the portal device Entrapta has built in the vehicle bay to get us out from underground.”

“ _Give me a few minutes to get the machine ready._ ”

Adora looks back at Tallstar. “Anything else I can get you? A hot meal, perhaps?”

* * *

They find Entrapta in a section of tunnel, strewn with rubble, just as she pushes a large chunk of rock down a defunct elevator shaft. The scene is lit by a work lamp so powerful it hurts to look at.

“Hey!” she says. “Whoever dug this mine just missed this small deposit of Thulite right here — cover your ears for a second.”

She picks up the jackhammer, and ducks into the hole she’s blown in the side of the tunnel, and goes at it for thirty seconds flat. The Star Siblings all have to cover their ears.

Then Entrapta backs out and reaches in with a pair of tentacles and wrests free a chunk of pink crystal the size of her head. She takes out a handheld scanner and puts it into contact with the mineral. “Mid-range purity at best, but w can always throw it in a refiner. I think there’s about a thousand pounds of it here. Should only take me a couple of minutes to extract.”

“Before you do,” Bow says. “Maybe you have some hearing protection for Jewelstar, Tallstar, and Starla?”

Entrapta darts to her huge pack of equipment, and then hands out earmuffs.

Then she picks up the jackhammer again, and goes to work. Conversation is impossible.

* * *

They step from the tunnel onto the sand plain above. Entrapta pushes two hovering carts full of Thulite out into the darkness of night. One for them, one for the Star Siblings.

Tallstar whistles to summon Glory.

“So, I guess this is where we part,” Jewelstar says to Adora.

“Wait up,” Adora says. “You still need our secret weapon.”

“Right,” Jewelstar says, reluctantly.

Adora sends the command for the speeder to come pick them up.

Glory comes gliding in on languid wingbeats, aglow in the dark and rain. It lands and takes an interest in the Thulite right away. Starla is quick to grab their cart of the stuff and push it towards Glory, who picks at the Thulite with its beak for a moment, then opens wide and extends its enormous pointed tongue coated in sticky saliva, which they use to lap up the fragments.

“Your bird is really fascinating,” Entrapta says, echoing what Adora is thinking.

“Yeah,” Starla says.

“Can it really travel through interstellar space?”

“Yeah, pretty cool, huh?”

“How?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hm… Experience has taught me that it would be inappropriate to ask permission to do exploratory surgery on people’s pets and animal companions,” Entrapta says. “So I am not going to do that. But if Glory ever dies of natural — or unnatural — causes one day, can I perform the necropsy?”

Starla looks at Entrapta as if she’s grown a second head.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Entrapta,” Bow says. “It is bad form to talk about the hypothetical death of people’s animal companions.”

“Why?”

“It reminds them of the unpleasant truth of the inevitability of death.”

Entrapta turns to Starla. “Starla, I’m sorry; I should not have said what I said.”

“Apology accepted?” Starla says. She looks back at her brother and sister who are both amused.

The speeder comes gliding smoothly over the black sand. Entrapta pushes their load of thulite over to it, and hooks the hover cart up to the speeder’s rear interface, then covers the bed of coarse gravel and cobble with a tarp.

“Starla,” Jewelstar says, “we’re going to follow them back to their ship.”

* * *

The mood in the speeder’s cramped cabin is much better on the way back. Glimmer takes the front seat, next to Bow, this time.

Adora and Entrapta both sit on the back seat on her knees, looking out of the transparent canopy roof, at Glory following them overhead. It is _majestic._

They arrive together at the Swift Wind.

Glory lands a little ways off, wary of the much bigger spaceship.

As the Star Siblings join up under the shelter of Swift Wind’s hull, Adora ambles over to Starla.

“Is… Is Glory afraid of spacecraft?”

“Maybe a little.”

“But, they’re sitting out there in the acid rain; I can get Swift Wind’s legs to extend a little more, and then they can…”

“Don’t worry about it; Glory is pretty much indestructible.”

“It’s really cool,” Adora says, “your giant space bird.”

“Yeah,” Starla agrees.

And indeed the gigantic bird seems completely unbothered by the caustic drizzle; preening its fathom-long feathers.

Using the ramp to the vehicle bay, Bow loads the speeder back in its parking spot; Entrapta hands the thulite off to Mara, and begins unloading a spare fabricator, refinery, data-crystal array, and power generator. With her improvements on the tech, such as limiting the power generator to only a 50% excess margin for the fabricator and refinery’s needs, it has all become a lot lighter and more compact.

“Adora,” Glimmer says, standing by the ramp with Jewelstar, Tallstar and the equipment.

Adora jogs over to provide the introduction. Starla follows.

“This is it,” Adora says, gesturing to the three pieces of equipment. “If Glory can carry that?”

Starla nods. “We’ve got space in the pod for that.”

“So, how does it work?” Tallstar asks, approaching the equipment, barely containing her curiosity. Adora picks up a tablet screen, and touches it, waking the inert device up. She hands it to Tallstar, who inspects it, and turns it over. The back reads ‘Fab.’

“Fab?”

“`Hello,`” the device says.

“What is this?” she says, looking at Adora.

“It’s the manual. It talks.”

“`What would you like to know?`”

“Isn’t he amazing?” Entrapta asks from the sidelines. “I programmed him myself! It’s even language agnostic, and can instruct using only moving pictures! Fab, show us how to connect all the components!”

The little display becomes animated, showing pictographically how the power and data cables connect, and how the hopper for the refinery attaches to the fabricator baseplate.

“It also can also teach first aid, and resistance fighting tactics,” Adora adds. “Not included in the set is the portal device, and peer-to-peer personal communicators. Fab recommends those as the first builds in absence of emergencies.”

“The most notable property is that the fabricator can manufacture all these five devices,” Entrapta adds. “So just one set is enough to kick-start production. The standard complement of patterns also include weapons and armor, essential medicines and medical supplies, tools, clothing, food, survival equipment, prefabricated materials, and the refinery can be used on its own to create stock metal, plastics, and most chemical reagents.”

“Jewel,” Tallstar says, wonder in her voice.

“What?” Jewelstar says.

“This is it. This is what we’ve been looking for, if we can find the others, and get everyone a set, then—”

“No. We are _not_ going to involve ourselves in that.”

“Brother! What is this venomous _pessimism_ that’s afflicting you?!” Tallstar yells.

Jewelstar steps forward. “You know _damn well_ what it is! I’m not strong enough!”

“And you think running away is going to make you _stronger_?”

Starla steps in between them pushing them apart. “Okay, enough! We’re all sad that everybody is _dead._ Especially mom and dad, and…” She looks at Jewelstar. “And Sirius.”

Jewelstar looks away, closing his eyes. Starla puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Jewel, do you really think he’d have wanted us to just run and hide forever? You always said you loved his courage most of all.”

Jewelstar draws a shaky breath.

“I promise, we’re not going to be fancy about this,” Tallstar says. “We’ll play it safe, fly under the radar; that’s the whole point of Adora’s playbook.” She looks at Adora, who nods in agreement.

“You’re not going to lose any of us, I promise,” Starla says.

“Y— you can’t promise something like that,” Jewelstar mutters.

“And yet, I am.”

Jewelstar takes a deep breath. “All right. Starla, take Glory and fetch the pod. Tallstar, I want you to learn the ins and outs of this stuff until you can recite it in your sleep. I’ll plot us a course back to home space, and we’ll meet the others at the Bastion.”

Starla runs into the rain, whistling at Glory, who is sitting all puffed up into a thirty-feet ball of fluff, seemingly asleep despite the inclement weather.

* * *

The ‘pod’ that Glory and Starla return with an aerodynamically shaped metal pressure vessel the size of a house, held by a handle in its enormous claws.

Tallstar carries the equipment inside, as if the dense machines were cardboard moving boxes full of eiderdown pillows. Entrapta gives her a ‘base-block’ to bring as well; a cuboid of high-density compound stock for the refinery.

Glimmer comes running down the ramp with a box under her arm. She hands it to Adora.

“What’s this?” Adora asks.

Glimmer lifts the lid. A bottle of wine, confections, and perfume. “It’s what I like to call the ‘human’ element of gift-giving,” Glimmer says.

Adora looks over at Jewelstar, who is talking with Bow. She sees Bow unsling his Zev rifle, and hand it to Jewelstar, who first rejects the gift out of politesse alone, then accepts on Bow’s insistence. Good riddance to bullets, once you get a taste of their holographic replacement.

Tallstar is chatting with Entrapta about her cybernetics.

“You know what this is?” Glimmer asks.

“What?”

“It’s the start of a resistance _much_ larger than just Etheria.”

Adora looks out into the rain. “Starla?” she calls, and waves the young woman over to them.

Starla finishes petting Glory, then comes running. “What?”

Adora hands her the box. “A little something for the trip; Glimmer’s idea.”

“Hi,” Glimmer says. “Sorry about putting you to sleep.”

Starla opens it, and looks inside. A smile spreads on her face. “Apology accepted.”

“That sword, can I see it?” Glimmer asks.

Starla draws her curved saber, twirls it, and hands it to Glimmer. “Careful with it, it’s an antique.”

Glimmer inspects the fine blade. “An ancestral enchanted weapon. It returns when you throw it?”

Starla nods.

Glimmer hands it back. “It’s a very fine weapon. Keep it close. You might need it one day.”

Starla sheathes it. “So… When we go back and get everyone to rise up against Prime… Is it okay if we rally under your name?” She asks Adora.

“She-Ra,” Adora says. “That’s the hero I used to be. I’m just a soldier, She-Ra is — _was_ a symbol of hope and unity, especially against the Horde.”

“She-Ra,” Starla echoes.

“This is going to sound weird, but can you give me a ride on Glory before you go?” Adora asks.

“What’s with you and that bird?” Glimmer asks.

“I just think they’re really neat!”

“Glory _is_ neat!” Starla agrees.

* * *

It’s very different from anything else Adora has every flown. Each powerful wingbeat gives a wave of acceleration followed almost by free-fall.

Starla is wearing some kind of metal mask, and a pair of goggles, as they fly higher and higher.

Up through the clouds of sour downpour, up, up, and up. Adora holds on for dear life. The saddle does have straps to strap in, but Starla didn’t strap herself in, so Adora followed her lead.

And then they break free of the clouds, and the starry sky opens up above them, as if the darkness of the rainstorm below was a bad dream.

Below, under the saddle, Glory starts glowing. They let out a melodious, triumphant warble.

The glow grows brighter, and brighter, illuminating the dark clouds below like a sunrise.

And then Adora _knows._ She knows that there is hope. They can win this, in the end; they just have to try.

And then she also knows that Glory is a being of starlight; like She-Ra. Able to channel it by nature’s hand alone.

That is what so enticed her to the beast.

She reaches into herself, to that place from which starlight once flowed, and feels the gentleness from this giant creature flow into her, and rekindle the extinguished flame.

“Is everything all right back there?” Starla asks. She looks over her shoulder, to see Adora, glowing from head to toe, the light permeating through her hazard suit.

“You… You’re glowing. Like glory.”

Adora nods, smiling. “Thanks, Starla, and thanks, Glory.” She reaches down to pat Glory on the back. “Good bird.”

Glory warbles in response.

* * *

They land, and Adora gets to pet Glory on the beak.

Tallstar and Jewelstar are ready to go; they’ve stocked up on some extra food, too, and had a nice and very necessary spot of small-talk with Glimmer, Bow, Entrapta, and even Mara who came down to visit in hologram form.

She heads back to shelter under the Swift Wind, with a mellow smile on her face.

“What happened to you?” Glimmer asks.

In response, Adora calls up the starlight. In the distance, Glory begins glowing too. “I made a friend.”

“Wow,” Tallstar mutters.

* * *

The goodbyes are brief, but heartfelt, and Adora and the others head inside to decontaminate their hazard suits of acid rain, and slip into something more comfortable.

“So,” Bow asks. “Is She-Ra back?”

Adora shakes her head. “Just starlight. I’m… Oddly relieved I can still call on it.”

“Oh no,” Entrapta says.

They all turn to her. “What?”

“Mara just sent me a letter,” she holds up her communicator. “The sewage filter is clogged. It needs manual cleaning; she needs an extra set of hands for that.”

Adora, who has hands-on experience with latrine duty, winces.

“I’m sure this isn’t the last we’ll see of the Star Siblings,” Glimmer says.

Entrapta wanders off, in search of something disposable and water-proof to wear.

“Hey,” Bow says. “It occurred to me, we don’t have a name for our little group…”

* * *

Catra has her wounds patched by the none-too-kind hands of an acolyte medic.

Then she is dragged along by two soldiers — who seem to be making sure her injured legs scrape along the floor the entire time — to the throne room.

There, she is thrown against the stairs to his podium. Prime sits on the throne, legs crossed, idly regarding her with perhaps a smidgen of disappointment.

Catra claws her way up the stairs, cursing her useless legs.

“The Etherian ship… Now that the Queen is no longer in my charge, it is no longer coming here. Correct?”

“That was the plan,” Catra says. She gets herself to sitting, not even facing Prime. She digs through her pockets, finding the pack of cheroots, taking the last one, and throwing the empty carton in Prime’s direction. She lights it with her lighter, which at some point in the fight took a bullet. The gas-soaked cotton inside has been drawn out in a long whisker. It still works.

She takes a drag and exhales. “You’re mad about _that_ and not my little rampage?” she asks. “You have your priorities in order. Unlike Hordak.”

“Hm,” Prime says. “It is but a minor setback. Your treachery will not save them. There is no darkness for them to hide in that my light cannot penetrate. It is, as it has always been, a matter of time.”

“In my experience,” Catra says. “Time is what loses wars.”

Prime rises. “You are _beloved_ in my sight, and this is how you repay me.”

Catra laughs. “What did you expect, man? Did you forget to take into account my _strong bonds_ and how they might be _my_ fatal weakness?” She takes another drag, and blows a smoke ring this time. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me, now. Glimmer is long gone, and with her, your hope of ever laying hands on She-Ra.”

She ashes on the floor. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer the firing squad. Call me sentimental.” She looks away.

Prime walks up to her, crouches down, and turns her head back to him. “Oh, my child. You are wrong. I overheard your little conversation in the teleporter room.”

Catra freezes. “Would I be remiss in guessing Adora cares deeply about you? Your bonds are not _your_ weakness, little sister. You are the weakness of _others._ A weakness I intend to exploit.”

He stands and claps for an acolyte to attend him. “And when you have secured me Adora, and I am done with her; I might even let you have what’s left.”

The acolyte arrives, holding a case. Prime opens it, and from it, draws a tiny insectoid creature.

Catra’s eyes go wide. She attempts to crawl away, but four strong hands grab her by the shoulders, and lifts her up.

“Don’t worry,” Prime says, turning his hand as the little creature crawls over his knuckles. “The procedure is quite pain free.”

Then he grabs hold of her jaw, and extends his other hand. The little creature jumps onto Catra’s cheek, orients itself, and then darts up her nostril — for a moment it is _incredibly_ uncomfortable. Like any other time she has accidentally inhaled an insect.

And then there’s a jolt, like electricity.

“Now, how do you feel?” Prime asks.

“Better, much better.” Catra says. It’s as if a burden has been lifted. She was wrong to ever oppose Prime. Foolish and ignorant. Now though… Now, she has a higher purpose. “Well, apart from my injuries.”

“Yes. Let’s get you fixed up.”


	9. Catra, Catawampus

The mood is good, aboard the Swift Wind.

The thulite-based parts for the portal engine are in fabrication, they’ve made three (four, counting Glory) new friends, Adora has gotten at least part of her mojo back, and Bow is no longer actively antagonistic towards his oldest friend — not that Glimmer has earned forgiveness, but at least, the path to healing what was once broken, has been opened.

They eat dinner together in the mess, all five of them. Entrapta insisting on MRE packets, Mara just being there for the company, but Glimmer, Bow, and Adora have cooked a simple meal, together.

Tomorrow, they’re setting out for Etheria once again. To fight.

“I think I’m going to change my name,” Mara says, suddenly.

They all look over at her, floating in sitting posture at the end of the table, purple holograms playing around her. She’s changed her clothes, from the pseudo-military uniform of an exploration mission’s captain, to that of her former quartermaster’s. More pockets, less shoulder pads.

“Okay?” Glimmer says.

“I think I’ll be Damara. Darla-Mara.”

“Oh!” Entrapta says. “That’s a beautiful name!”

Damara smiles.

“Why?” Adora asks, skeptical.

Damara looks at her. “Because, my sweet girl… First, don’t worry; I’m still me, this is not a concession. But second, I’ve changed a lot over the last few days; I quite like the part of me that is Darla. Swift Wind was always my favourite place, and now I’m a part of it.”

“A toast?” Bow suggests.

They raise their cups.

Damara looks away. “Incoming ansible message.”

Adora’s communicator chimes. She takes it out. It’s an audio snippet.

“ _Hey Adora,_ ” Catra says, quietly, fear and pain evident in her voice. “ _Help me, ple—_ ”

Ice runs down Adora’s spine.

“ _Adora. Or should I call you She-Ra. As you can hear, I have your beloved childhood friend-turned-nemesis in my custody,_ ” Horde Prime says. “ _You have one hundred and eight hours to turn yourself in, or I am going to broadcast to the whole galaxy, her vivisection._ ”

“`End of message.`”

Adora drops her communicator like it has burned her. The ruggedized little rectangular device clatters on the table.

She springs out of her seat, and strides a few paces away, holding one hand over her mouth.

Glimmer and Bow exchange one look, then both rise and go to her.

“He has her,” Adora mutters. Tears collect in her eyes. “He has Catra. He’s going to kill her and make me watch.”

Glimmer and Bow both hug her, and she begins sobbing.

* * *

It takes a long while before Adora is calm enough for them to have a strategy meeting.

“So,” Damara says. “I hate to be the stick in the mud, but voice samples can be faked. This could very well be a trick, and your feliform friend is either dead, or has already escaped.”

Glimmer shakes her head. “She had no intention of escaping when she sent me here. She was going out with a blaze of glory.”

“It’s not a trick,” Adora says. “He has Catra.”

“How can you be so sure?” Damara asks.

“I just know. In my heart.”

Damara nods. “I believe you.”

“What, you do?” Bow asks.

“I was She-Ra, once,” Damara says. “More often than not we’re right about out gut instincts.” She shifts her posture, despite sitting on air. “But to continue mining this vein of cynicism, an argument can be made that we cannot risk it. This Catra already made her last stand, if she dies, then she will die prepared, and a hero. That it is public and torturous are ultimately details.”

Adora nods. “I know. Rationally, if I get captured, Prime will have the Heart — assuming it still works now that She-Ra is dead, and then everybody loses. I am too valuable to risk it.”

“But you still want to rescue her,” Glimmer says.

Adora nods, and a tear rolls down her cheek. “She’s… If I could get her back, I— I know she’s hurt a _lot_ of people. She’s hurt _us._ ”

She sniffles, and wipes her eyes. “As captain, I cannot in good conscience let this decision be unanimous.” She takes a deep breath. “I want to hear your objections. I want to hear the worst things she’s done to us. Which I know is a lot to ask. But please, I need to be convinced that this is a bad idea.”

The others share concerned looks.

“She captured me and Glimmer,” Bow says quietly. “I was tortured; beaten. Glimmer was forced to use her powers in horrible ways. I mean, she didn’t do it personally, and I don’t think she had the power to change how we were treated, but she handed us off to those people, knowing what they’d do to us… She also burned down the Whispering Woods, and nearly blew up my dads and my childhood home, from what I heard.”

“My mom is gone because of her,” Glimmer notes. “I’m not going to list all the things she did acting as a Horde soldier, because… Because that was her being our enemy, fair and square; and while I resent that; honestly we would have done the same to her. And we did. But… Angella is gone because of her, and in her place, I fucked everything up.”

“Fair enough,” Bow notes. “I rescind the burning down the forest bit, and maybe fifty percent of the nearly killing my dads thing; the tracking spell was a legitimate target.”

“Uh,” Entrapta says. “So. You remember in the Northern Reach, right? She stole my virus crystal, and turned She-Ra’s weapon into big monster thing with eyes and hands —”

“— An Obtainer,” Glimmer supplies.

“An Obtainer, thanks. And then She-Ra — no offense, Adora — went insane, and tried to kill us all; at least I think so.”

“No, you pretty much got it,” Adora says.

“And I was initially fine with it; it was scary, but I collected a lot of interesting data as a result. After we got home… Hordak was angry with her. He said…” She tears up. “Sorry, this is difficult to talk about, it reminds me that he’s with Prime right now, and that I miss him a lot.”

Damara pats her on the shoulder.

“Hordak said he would never forgive himself if anything happened to me. And that if I could forgive Catra for putting me in danger, he would let his anger lie, and help me give her a second chance to prove herself useful. In retrospect, giving her that second chance was a mistake. When I discovered that the portal was going to destroy the world, I wanted to stop it.”

She looks at Damara. “You’re the one who built that despondent subspace; I hope you’re not angry with me for tampering with it. I was going to stop it, I swear.”

Damara smiles. “Entrapta, you’re the reason I am alive right now. I should have foreseen that outcome, and not made the world prison in that fashion to begin with. Continue with your story.”

“Right. Ah, Catra did _not_ want me to stop the portal, so she assaulted me, and made Scorpia send me to Beast Island. Presumably she intended for me to die there, but I survived by the power of my _mind!_ ” She smiles. Then her smile fades. “Catra is a bad person. And I don’t understand why she did a lot of the things she did. And that is all I have to say about it.”

Glimmer, sitting next to Entrapta, puts her hand on hers.

Entrapta pulls her hand back. “Sorry, I don’t want to be touched right now.”

“No need to apologize, I should have asked first,” Glimmer says. “I’ll ask first next time.”

“Thank you.” Entrapta takes a deep breath. “Damara, it’s your turn to talk about Catra now.”

Damara nods. “Well, I don’t have a personal relationship to her, to begin with. I know that she’s hurt my daughter, on numerous occasions, and with great sadism; I know she has run military operations that nearly killed my mother; and I know she has willingly worked for a man who broke my family. She also nearly destroyed my home planet.”

They sit in silence a little.

Adora gets up, and stars pacing.

She stops. “So. Let’s vote.”

“I vote we rescue her,” Glimmer says. “I don’t want to be vengeful and Queenly in this. Sure, she has done a lot of bad things, but fundamentally she has done the same thing you did, Adora. If you hadn’t found the aegis, and gotten captured by us, you would have participated in the destruction of Thaymor. If we hadn’t shown you kindness, you would never have told us it was going to happen. I would be a strange sort of hypocrite, if I said we don’t have a duty to rescue her.”

“I abstain,” Bow says. “I think it should be Adora’s decision. She is the one who knows Catra the best, and… She’s your adopted sister. If any of my brothers joined the Horde, I’d want to try to get them back too, no matter what horrible acts they committed.”

“I abstain,” Entrapta says. “I know I’m supposed to feel resentment, and that she took some bad risks that put me in danger; but because of her, I found the Runestone on Beast Island, and… This next bit requires some context…”

“Go on,” Damara says.

“I think it is the closest thing Dryl has to an ancestral Runestone. We have some sorceries that are used to grant children of the royal lineage extra intelligence. I had those rituals done to me when I was very small, when it became apparent that I was different; or so my Nanny said. It didn’t help. But anyway, those rituals, I think they established some form of link with my Runestone. And now that I am a full wielder, things make a lot more sense. ‘Closure,’ I think it’s called.”

“All right, thank you for sharing,” Damara says. “I vote we do _not_ rescue her. If it goes wrong, that’s it. Everyone dies. I cannot in good conscience sign off on that. That is all.”

Adora resumes pacing. “Well that didn’t _fucking_ help,” she mutters to herself.

“Hey,” Bow says. “I have an idea.”

Adora looks at him.

“Channel starlight. Think of Catra.”

Adora stops pacing, closes her eyes.

Then they all have to close their eyes, against the sudden blinding radiance.

“That decides it, I think,” Bow says.

One hundred and three hours left on the clock, they get to work.

* * *

Adora stands in front of the holographic map of the Velvet Glove.

“So, what’s the plan? That’s what we’re all thinking. Our target is Catra, and the primary obstacle is Horde Prime; no pun intended. According to Glimmer’s intel, any brute-force approach is right out. According to Entrapta’s intel, we cannot possibly execute a covert approach, so a clandestine operation is also out.”

Bow is wearing his reading glasses, Glimmer is taking notes, Entrapta is listening raptly while looking at the holographic map, Damara has an ear on it but is not physically present.

“That leaves… Deception. I think our best bet is perfidious: a false surrender by me, to cover your infiltration. Once inside you three will secure the targets, Catra — and Hordak if you find him — for extraction, and then we… Blow something up, or something, to cover our escape.”

“I think I speak for all of us when I say that sounds good,” Bow says. “Shall we get started on the specifics?”

* * *

“You called?” Glimmer asks, entering the workshop. “Why aren’y you wearing a shirt?”

Bow looks down himself. “Ah, I could have sworn—” he looks up, and flips his magnifying goggles up. “Hey, yeah, remember that tracker we built that tracks Catra?”

“Ah, yeah. I think I left it in Brightmoon. It also relies on sympathetic connection, and we don’t have any of Catra’s…”

“Damn,” Bow says, and turns back to the components scattered on the workbench. “It would have been _incredibly_ useful.”

“Wait,” Glimmer says. “ _I_ have a sympathetic connection to Catra.”

Bow looks at her. “Explain?”

“I— I’d rather _not,_ but… Okay, don’t be mad, but I seduced her; tried to, at least.”

Bow snorts. “You bedded _Catra?!_ ”

“She was going to join the Galactic Horde! I had to do _something!_ ”

“I’m almost afraid to ask if she was any good in bed,” Bow says.

“Oh it was _awful._ ”

Bow laughs.

Glimmer looks away, blushing.

“No. I’m not mad. And hey, it must have done _something,_ considering what happened. So. Wanna help me build this thing?”

Glimmer pulls up a hover chair.

“Is it true what they say about feliform people’s tongues?”

She punches him in the arm.

* * *

Damara appears suddenly in Adora’s bedchambers. “Adora, I need you in the infirmary, right away. Entrapta’s gotten hurt.”

Adora springs out of bed, and doesn’t bother putting on clothes, sprinting into the hallway. Damara floats after her.

They arrive to see Entrapta sitting on a sick bed, her overalls around her waist, and her blouse pulled to the side to expose one shoulder. Her exoskeleton legs, and tentacle arms are sitting in the corner.

“Hey Adora, thank you for coming so quickly.”

Adora looks at Damara. “Mom, I kind of got the impression this was a lot more urgent.”

“I— Well, it _is,_ Entrapta’s important for the Swift Wind’s continued functioning.”

Adora walks up to Entrapta. “So, what seems to be the issue?”

“Shoulder pain,” Entrapta says. “I suspected torn rotator cuff from repetitive strain, and a scan has confirmed it. It’s not like it’s going to significantly impede my performance given all my artificial manipulators…”

Adora puts a hand on Entrapta’s injured shoulder, and closes her eyes. She thinks of Catra — because who else? — and the starlight begins to flow. Rapidly, and with power; she has to focus to restrain the searing brightness.

It is still too much and too fast. The entire room is illuminated.

“Oh wow!” Entrapta exclaims. “That’s _intense!_ ”

Adora cuts the flow entirely. “Sorry! It’s hard to control — did it work?”

Entrapta rolls her shoulder. “The pain is gone at least; I’ll get a scan to confirm.”

She hops down. “Huh, the pain in my hip is gone too. And—” she runs a hand over her belly. “Ah. That’s unfortunate.”

“What?”

“I think you’ve reversed my hysterectomy.”

“You had a _hysterectomy?_ Why?”

“I self-administered a hysterectomy!” Entrapta says somewhat triumphantly. “I have an inborn deformity that renders the organ dead weight. Also, periods are _icky._ This time I can get to take proper tissue samples, though!”

Adora blinks. “Well, check first if my healing undid that deformity, okay?” Then she pulls up her blouse to show the circular diagram tattooed in white ink just above her pubic bone. “And you can get one of these for your periods.”

* * *

Glimmer washes off the needles and tattoo pen, before putting them into the autoclave.

In the infirmary, the next room over, Adora is resting after the procedure. Entrapta has gone off to crash somewhere for a few hours.

“You can just throw them in the recycler,” Damara says.

Glimmer looks to her side, where the woman hovers a foot off the ground.

“No; we might need the sympathetic connection later, for a touch-up.”

Damara twists in the air. “You’re the one who activated the Heart of Etheria,” she states matter-of-factly with a neutral expression.

Glimmer almost drops the second tattoo pen. She backs away, slowly.

“Sorry, that sounded menacing,” Damara continues.

“Oh, did it?” Glimmer asks. “For a moment I thought you were going to space me or something.”

Damara shakes her head. “Listen; I got the full story from Adora on the way to Antioch. I wanted to tell you, that you’re not the only one who got duped into almost destroying the entire universe.”

“Are you saying that you—” Glimmer says. “Oh.”

“Yeah. We’re part of a very exclusive club of people who almost destroyed the world, and our only solace, if we have such, is that Light Hope manipulated us into doing it.”

“That’s… More of a condemnation, really,” Glimmer notes. “We’re easily manipulable.”

Damara nods. “Anyway, if you ever want to talk about it; you know where to find me.”

* * *

Three days of preparations, planning, and arming themselves, they are ready.

With thirty hours left, they make the jump to interstellar space, and from there begin the jaunt to the system where the Velvet Glove is to be found. By Damara’s projections, they’ll get there with ten hours left on the clock.

Twenty hours to rest and make final preparations. Damara mandates strict bed-times and hearty meals.

Arriving a light year from the star in question, Adora takes the helm.

The others put on Entrapta’s hazard suits, and go on a space walk.

Entrapta guides Bow and Glimmer — whose wings hold up to vacuum just find — to a section of hull plating, which she loosens, to reveal a compartment between the exterior hull, and the interior hull. Three inertially dampened seats are set up there, with barely enough room to squeeze in.

“I want to emphasize that this is completely safe,” Entrapta says. “It is, however, going to _suck._ ”

She helps Glimmer and Bow get seated, then squeezes in herself, screws the hull panel back in place from the inside, and seats herself.

“All right, Adora, we’re in position,” Bow says.

In the control center, Adora hangs her shield in the magnetic weapon chuck on her back. She is dressed in her best: shined boots, high-waisted slacks, a brilliantly red jacket; all over the strongest body-armor suit Entrapta could make her.

 _Roger,_ she sub-vocalizes, and the implanted little intentionality controller in her throat synthesizes a voice to broadcast to the others: “`Roger.`”

From the outside, you can’t see her speak. Similarly, she has a communicator ear piece implanted behind her ear. The actual communicator is broken up into two dozen sub-dermal chips.

“Mom,” she says out loud. “Ready to pretend you’re stupid?”

“`Query not recgonized,`” Damara says next to her.

“Spot on.”

Adora puts on gloves and the virtual reality mask. She selects the pre-made jaunt profile, and engages the portal engine.

* * *

The Swift Wind arrives at the stationary point behind the gas giant, about which the Velvet Glove is in orbit.

Adora gains access to the ansible network, and opens a video connection; intended recipient marked ‘whomever it may concern’ aboard the Velvet Glove.

Adora looks into the recording eye’s lens. “My name is Adora also known as She-Ra. I’m here to surrender, conditional on several matters,” she says. “I come alone.”

Then, she waits.

“`Is everything all right out there?`” Adora asks, just getting used to subvocalizing.

“ _We’re peachy;_ ” Bow replies in her ear. “ _I really much prefer to be within the inner hull for future jaunts. Glimmer, are you—_ ”

“ _I think I’m going to be sick,_ ” Glimmer says.

“ _Glimmer, I need you to not throw up in your helmet; you’ll die if you do,_ ” Entrapta says. “ _I’m going to administer an antiemetic; but I need you to fight it until it takes effect, okay?_ ”

Adora waits with bated breath.

“ _Okay, I’m okay, I think,_ ” Glimmer says eventually.

Adora lets out a sigh of relief. “Don’t scare me like that, you guys.”

“Portal engine signatures,” Damara says.

Adora puts on the mask, and watches in the virtual space, how a dozen interceptor craft appear around her, immediately burning to match orbit.

“Incoming ansible communication link,” Damara says.

“Patch it through.”

A hologram screen opens up in front of her, as she takes off the mask again.

Horde Prime, with all the calm confidence of a galactic emperor, stares back at her.

“Adora, so good of you to come, and just in time as well. Please, you may approach my flagship on the transmitted trajectory parameters —” he gestures “— or you will be boarded. Deviate, and not only will I shoot you down, I will kill your precious Catra.”

A holographic vista pops up showing her the trajectory in terms she doesn’t entirely understand — orbital mechanics is Bow’s forte, not hers.

“Auto-pilot, execute the received trajectory.”

“`Roger,`” Damara says, in a deliberately artificial voice. She’s changed to a hologram form, monochromatic purple.

Adora puts her mask back on and Swift Wind lurches wit the burn; in the visualization she sees the interceptors ignite their torch engines and begin spewing hundred-mile long trails of plasma out behind them.

Then, they reach the required velocity, and Damara initiates the jump. This one is mercifully nigh-instantaneous, followed by a brief circularizing burn that at once also corrects orbital eccentricity. Another jump puts them in synchronous orbit with the Velvet Glove, at two miles distance.

The view from the control center switches to real space, and Adora beholds the behemoth spaceship with her own eyes.

Eight spin-gravity rings, each big enough to hold a small toroidal city; each partitioned into twelve segments that can rotate when the gigantic spinal engine fires, to ensure down stays down.

The spine itself is a half mile in diameter, and holds a cannon that can accelerate projectiles of a classified mass exceeding a ton, to a classified velocity exceeding fourteen percent of the speed of light.

Said spine, also contains the space port she is instructed to dock at.

Adora lets Damara perform the delicate maneuvering necessary to ensure they don’t collide with the seventh and eight counter-rotating habitat rings, and glides through a force-field.

“ _Oh! That’s just hubris!_ ” Entrapta says. “ _A forcefield to keep the air in! And what happens when the power goes out?_ Woo~sh, _everyone goes to space! Which is bad in this context!_ ”

“ _Entrapta, save it for later, we’re on a mission,_ ” Bow says.

Damara sets her ship gently in one of the docking bays, reaching out with five landing legs to magnetically clamp to the sterile-white metal ‘floor.’

“`All right guys, this is it, we're landing,`” Adora sub-vocalizes.

She gets out of her chair, and heads down to the pylon elevator. The elevator shaft, however has been replaced by a zero-gravity tunnel, leading into the open hangar space at the end. Emily offers her a belt with an intent-controlled reactionless thruster, then scurries behind an access panel.

“ _Be adivsed, the hangar has no gravity,_ ” Damara says to them all.

Adora activates the thruster belt and glides forward out into the open hangar.

There she is greeted by a drone, flying by the power of two independently vectoring ducted fans. A white sphere, undoubtedly armed.

“`CLEAR THE ARISPACE PLEASE, TO ART-GRAV WALKWAYS,`” it says in a horribly grating synthetic voice.

One such walkway rotates in like a many-jointed arm, and up it’s length, even as it moves, comes a group of acolytes, and three squads of soldiers; all clones.

Adora touches down on it and immediately feels the gentle pull of gravity.

Approaching, are a delegation of acolytes in robes, and two ten-man squads of soldiers, all of them clones.

“Greetings, Adora, you are awaited by Horde Prime in his throne room,” one of the acolytes say. “Please, allow these two boarding teams to sweep the interior of your craft; purely for the collective safety of all passengers on the Velvet Glove.”

Adora steps aside, and gestures. “Go right ahead, though I must warn you, if you trip the automatic security systems, the craft will respond with lethal force; that much is outside of my control.”

“Of course, the boarding teams shall exercise utmost caution and non-interference.”

The last squad of soldiers, are her escort. “Please relinquish all weapons.”

“I am unarmed.”

“You are carrying a blunt instrument on your back,” the acolyte points out.

“It is a shield. As weapons go it is only marginally more effective than a walking stick; do you mean to tell me that these —” she gestures to the soldiers in body armor armed with automatic carbines “— fine specimens are incapable of shooting me if I resort to violence with a melee weapon?”

The four acolytes exchange glances. “Acceptable. Prime shall consider it a ceremonial weapon alone.”

The six armed guards lead her down the walkway, and into the arterial passage of the hangar bays. There, a vehicle is waiting consisting of several independent carts, running on a track of some kind.

“Step aboard the train,” one of the soldiers say.

Adora does, and the guards follow.

Everything expected to become grimy is grey, everything not, is white. The only dash of color is the occasional sickly green.

The train rushes towards the bow of the Velvet Glove, and stops a minute later, at a station, for them to disembark. Being aboard the Swift Wind for so long has made Adora take artificial gravity for granted; here in this vast space, only the walkways have it, and everything passing overhead — huge transport prams, entire spaceships — pass overhead, weightless.

The station leads to a transition zone where the floor curves up to the wall, and below, a second section of floor languidly moves past at walking pace. There’s even a section of accelerating rolling walkway to better match speeds and minimize trip hazards. The whole complex is rated for perhaps hundreds of pedestrians per minute, and only a few dozen are there.

“`Everything on your end all right?`” Adora sub-vocalizes.

“ _Yeah,_ ” Bow replies. “ _We’re waiting for an opening to move._ ”

“`Damara?`”

“ _Boarding teams are abiding the misdirection spells; they’ve swept the spinal hallway, the control room, and the transverse hallway, without going into a single side room._ ”

“`Good.`”

Up the curve, is an elevator landing, riding along with the rotating toroidal section of floor.

One of the dozen large elevators is waiting for them, and they ride down, artificial gravity being replaced with spin.

From the elevator, they step out into a bleak hallway, and they lead Adora down this way and that; all identical halls of nondescript doors.

In her eye, she tracks the path laid out on a map displayed on her contact lenses’ screen, providing her with a hologram view that only she can see.

“ _Okay, we’re out, and under cloak and spell,_ ” Bow says. “ _Adora… You’re going into the eighth ring, where Horde Prime’s throne room is. From what I can tell, she’s there. With him._ ”

An indicator on the map shows her own path, and another shows Catra’s location.

Adora steels her features, so as to not betray what she’s learning.

“ _I’m going to head off and set up the bombs,_ ” Glimmer says.

Adora knows she’s going to use the portal device to head down the miles-long spine of the ship to the engines.

“ _We’re heading after you, Adora,_ ” Entrapta says. “ _Hordak’s tracker is in the eighth ring too._ ”

* * *

Horde Prime’s throne rooms is almost austere. Besides its size as a hundred-yard dome, the animated walls, and the choir of acolytes lining the walls of the room; the only feature is the throne on the podium, and the screen behind it.

“Adora; She-Ra. Welcome aboard the Velvet Glove.”

“Horde Prime,” Adora says, malice dripping from her voice.

“Please, this is a negotiation. We can be civil,” he replies. “Now; you’re here to surrender. What are your terms? I think you will find I am quite reasonable. First, might I ask why you came alone? I’ve heard you have a great many loyal allies.”

“Nobody wanted to risk their lives to come fetch their former enemy,” Adora lies.

“How very sane. Fine, state your terms.”

“Catra is to go free,” Adora says. “She’s going to board the Swift Wind — my ship — and both are going to travel back on Etheria, unmolested.”

Prime nods. “Is that all?”

“… You are also going to hand over the clone known as Hordak. He is inconsequential in the broad scheme of things, but belongs on Etheria more than here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because he is me. I can no more voluntarily relinquish him than you could amputate your own finger and still be hale.”

“Fine. Third, since I’m going to be your prisoner anyway, you’re going to tell me who you are, where you came from, and why you’re conquering the galaxy. And I don’t mean empty propaganda; really, I want to _know._ ”

Horde Prime re-crosses his legs. “Or what?”

“Or _what?_ ” Adora laughs. “Or I am not going to cooperate.”

“And what does that imply?”

“At the very least, by untimely suicide. I’m the key to the Heart of Etheria; which you so desperately want. A very fragile key.”

Prime stands. “Very well. Let us first talk, then I shall see Catra aboard your ship and sent off, and then you will be my prisoner. Agreeable?”

Adora nods.

Three acolytes approach setting up a table and two chairs. Another comes with a pitcher of water and a glass, for Adora.

“In my opinion, we are over due for a conversation anyway,” Prime says, sitting down, and gesturing for Adora to do the same.

* * *

The trip from the Swift Wind, up the spine, and to the rotating anchor of the eighth ring is harrowing, as a small speck flying amidst the moving traffic of cargo freighters. No security drone approaches them; as they fly along on a modified speeder-glider hybrid, under a potent misdirection spell, and active camouflage.

They land on the rotating floor segment, running under most of the used space within the spine. Bow parks the flyer behind the elevator bank, off to the side.

“Are we just going to leave it here?” Entrapta says. The hiding spot is really no hiding spot as such, active camouflage or no. “Someone could… Bump into it.”

“The misdirection spell will take care of it,” Bow says. “Those things are potent, and Damara says they’re already working on the Swift Wind.”

Scouring the elevators, they find an engineering access door, into the shafts. Bow slaps a misdirection sigil on it, and Entrapta attaches a breaching device. The little golden gadget spins up, and opens an impermanent portal through the steel next to the door, letting them step through without having to bypass a lock. There’s a zig-zag staircase, which absurdly, descends into the dimly-lit darkness below. There’s gravity on the steps, but only barely.

The descent itself is deep enough that they can’t with the naked eye see how deep it goes.

An elevator arrives, going at a break-neck speed, braking only just as it slots into the landing above.

“I think we should fly down,” Entrapta says.

“Yeah, the stairs will be much too slow,” Bow says. “But we’re going to have to dodge the elevators.”

“Let me go get the flyer.”

Entrapta runs back up the stairs.

* * *

It is too risky to simply portal her there, so Glimmer takes the long way. With a reactionless engine strapped to her back, she flies rearward in the ship, constantly awaiting the moment where something or someone sees her, despite the cloaking and spell she is under.

About halfway down the spine’s transport-way, she nearly collides with a freighter that into the space she is about to occupy. She flares her wings and the engine hits full reverse, and yet, from all her built up speed, stops herself with only three more feet until impact.

Worst part is, there is no way she can slow down; there simply isn’t time.

Despite begin the one with wings, Glimmer reluctantly admits that Bow is the superior flyer.

* * *

Locating the flyer takes her a full thirty seconds; it just slips off her mind as she looks for the telltale faint visual disruption of active camouflage. So much for doubting the efficacy of Glimmer’s improvised misdirection spells working.

Getting the little flyer into the elevator shaft through the breach in the wall is a challenge, but Entrapta, always the problem solver, gets it through and down by turning it upside down.

They wait until the elevator closest to them has rushed by, and then Entrapta holds the machine out into empty space while Bow climbs on, and then she pulls herself into the seat behind him with her tentacles.

Bow turns on the engine, and they descend.

A third of the way to the bottom, the elevator below them starts rising with terrifying speed, and Bow pulls up, putting them on a course to cut across to the next shaft; he narrowly misses the descending elevator above in the process.

* * *

“Ask away.”

Adora ponders for a moment. “Who and what are you?”

“I am Prime. Unity made flesh. My greatest enemy is chaos, war, and bloodlust; I seek to prolong the existence of civilization in the galaxy — nay, the universe — so that it may all experience the gift of unity. Peace and order on a pan-galactic scale is my only calling.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

“Yes; often I find those who oppose me believe I cannot possibly have my stated motivation and philosophy be my _actual_ ones. That I must have some sinister motive. Alas, it is not so. What leads me to conquest and suppression is the simple fact that strife and war is the natural state of all life in this universe, intelligent or otherwise. I do not intervene because I wish to, but because otherwise _there can be no peace._ ”

“So you reduce any planet whose population opposes you to endless deserts of black sand?”

“I do not subject anyone to orbital bombardment; I give them the option of submission or self-destruction, and invariably, a steady forty-six percent choose destruction. Should that number ever rise above fifty, I am recommitted to changing this strategy, seeing as I am not out to depopulate the universe of habitable planets, plentiful as though they are.”

“Glimmer said—”

“That I would choose to destroy the whole universe, rather than let chaos persist in it? Indeed, and until I learned of the existence of your world, that was a moot point. It is my answer to the great dilemma: whether to sacrifice perfection for the sake of completion.”

Adora frowns. “All right, so what are you and where did you come from?”

“That, I do not know; I have erased all memory and record of my origin, so as to not inadvertently provide my enterprising enemies with some key fact that will let them hinder me.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for anything here?”

“I do not lie. Not because I cannot, mind, but by choice. Lies are seeds from which strife inevitably springs.”

Adora rubs her chin, coming up with a rebuttal. “Your peace is a false one.”

“Oh, is it now?”

“You propose an absence of conflict is the essence of peace; despite evidently, there being still a cause for strife under your rule; namely the fight for freedom against your oppression. A true peace is fair and just, not enforced under the threat of planetary annihilation.”

“Semantics. Yes, I would prefer if I could simply create just and good societies and have them be peaceful; and in the past, this I have tried. And, I have tried every permutation of remedies against the strife that inevitably arises. Eliminating scarcity, eliminating sickness, working only from the shadows, progressing society so gradually that the passing of generations meant nobody save dedicated historians knew changes had occurred. However, in _every_ case, the peoples I attempted to save, would find some reason to resent either each other or myself, and eventually escalate petty conflicts until I had to intervene.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Hundreds of thousands of years. Your entire existence and experience from which you attempt to argue against me is as a dewdrop; I am as a vast ocean.”

Adora snorts. “You’re a pompous oaf, you know that?”

“And you are a child; an infant. Your mockery is thus infantile, and you will not ever get a rise out of me for your efforts.”

“ _We’re in position,_ ” Bow says.

“ _The bomb has been planted,_ ” Glimmer adds.

“`Proceed,`” Adora directs them to.

“Ouch,” Adora says out loud.

The door to the throne room opens behind her, and she turns in her seat, to see an Acolyte pushing a wheelchair in, upon which, sits Catra; her legs under a blanket, and another draped over her shoulders. Her hair is slicked back and braided; in a style that mimics the tubes attached to Prime’s skull.

Adora stands, wishing nothing else than to run to her.

“And here you shall see proof of the benevolence that is the core of all my work. Here is your opportunity to say your farewells.”

Adora clenches her fist. “No.”

“No?”

Adora turns to him. “Thank you for so eagerly sharing your philosophy with me, it was most enlightening. I was however, only doing so to buy time. I did _not_ come alone, and I am _not_ going to remain here as your prisoner.”

“I suspected as much,” Prime says, almost amused. “Tell me why I should let you go.”

“The purpose you intended me to fulfill, activating the Heart of Etheria, is void; She-Ra is dead, and the artifact that bound her to the Heart is destroyed. Plainly put, you have no reason for me being your prisoner.”

“Alas,” Prime says. “Apart from you being the leader of a military resistance movement against my hegemony. Also, this explains in part why you have not used this weapon you purportedly possess against me.”

"Yeah, which is why my friends have planted a bomb down by this ship’s engines. A _big_ one. Either me and Catra walk out of here, or we vaporize your entire ship.

Prime claps. Clap, clap, clap. “Marvelous. And that you managed to do so covertly. I suspect some trickery is involved, and I cannot wait to piece together how you did it; however, consider this.”

The screen behind him springs to life, mirroring the real view of the outside blackness of space and the gas giant they orbit. The view pans to show an unremarkable patch of star field, then zooms in.

There, orbiting merrily, is the Velvet Glove.

“I have a spare. Does Etheria have a spare Adora?”

Adora hesitates.

“You also showed your hand, just as I thought you might. My little brother’s pet, this Entrapta character is with you, is she not? From the evidence on hand, I deduce it is likely. This leads me to believe she is sneaking around my ship, trying to locate that aberration of a clone whom she so loves, the fool. Rest assured, I have taken my precautions. And…”

Horde Prime looks to Catra. “Little sister. Why don’t you come join us, and you can tell Adora that all her efforts to enact this rescue, are in vain.”

Catra straightens up, and rises from the wheelchair. Hard metallic clinks sound as she steps onto the floor, and the blanket slides off her legs to reveal why.

Strapped to — or perhaps _bolted_ to — her cybernetic left arm, is a sleek assembly of weapons. A folding blade pointing up past her elbow, the muzzle of two different barrels and a lens aperture poking out by her wrist. Her shirt is a one-shoulder top, showcasing this monstrosity of an add-on.

But worse, far worse, is her legs. They’ve been amputated mid-thigh, and in their place, two white, digitigrade cybernetic prosthetics have been put in place, with raptor-like claws on the toes. She stands a head taller than Adora.

“Hey, Adora,” she says, in a calm voice, her face the image of serenity.


	10. Cat, Saved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mind control, battle injuries, suicide

Glimmer is halfway back to the hangar, flying the perilous run in reverse.

“`We've been had!`” Adora says.

Then, the air of the entire tunnel is evacuated, in a deafening cacophony of fans whirring.

Ahead of her, at approximately the halfway mark between the now booby-trapped engine, and the hangar, blast doors slam shut, cutting off the entire aft of the ship, from the front.

“Shit! Damara? A little help here?”

“ _Negative, sorry; you’re boosting away._ ”

Glimmer reaches the blast shields, and has to use the thruster in her belt to brake — there’s no air for her wings to work on.

She draws her Zev pistol, and shoots the thick shielding. Barely a dent. But a _dent._

“You’re made of metal, aren’t you?” Glimmer mutters to herself.

She glides back, and casts the Third Flame of Elm. The blue-hot flames manifest, burning in a spherical fashion in the absence of gravity, and in a paradoxical fashion in the absence of air. Rapidly, the metal heats up, growing first dull red, then cherry red, then orange, yellow, and white. Globules of it start rising from the surface, and Glimmer casts a telekinetic spell to scoop away the melted metal.

The heat spreads through the structure of the gate, and after about a minute, she changes strategies and just forces aside the softened metal with a stronger telekinesis.

Beyond, she sees the distant, retreating upper four rings of the Velvet Glove. Perhaps a mile or two distant. Six bright blue lights are visible around the spine, active fusion torch engines; though nowhere near the size of the one behind her.

She casts a heat-shield spell to be safe, then pushes forward through the hole on her thruster belt. In her visor, she selects the rangefinder and tries to gauge relative velocities with the distant half of the ship.

It is accelerating away from her still.

Desperate, she casts the first flame, which only steadies her with her target; neither gaining or losing distance. She doesn’t have enough thrust-to-weight to catch up.

“Damara,” she says. “The lower half of the Velvet Glove just got jettisoned, and we’re accelerating apart. I’m going to end up stranded out here.”

* * *

The last of the boarding teams exit the way they came in and Damara would breathe a sigh of relief if she had lungs right now.

“`We've been had!`”

There’s a shudder in the superstructure, and then the Velvet Glove begins undergoing acceleration.

Damara ejects a cloaked reconnaissance drone, which spies a closed set of blast doors a ways down the spine. It then boosts hard, hitting supersonic, and flying straight past air patrol drones before they can react.

It breaches the force field into hard vacuum, and accelerates away from the Velvet Glove, turning its cameras backwards. True enough, the entire ship is broken in two, and the two halves are employing radially mounted thrusters to separate.

She gets Glimmer’s distress call.

There is nothing she can do; with both ship halves undergoing acceleration, there is no way to bridge it with a portal, safely.

Through the exterior cameras, she sees another boarding team approach, carrying armored cases — explosives, most likely. As they pass through the zero-G shaft, the chemical sensors confirm it.

She lets them pass through and enter into her main hallway; and as the last clone is through, she slams the doors closed on them.

They react immediately, one of them beginning to prepare a breaching charge.

Then her machine guns descend from the ceiling and mow the twelve clones down in seconds.

Adora _did_ warn them.

Damara waits.

Thirty seconds later, she sees the arrival of drones and clones armed with anti-armor weaponry.

Horrifyingly, up above the hangar bay, they wheel out an actual cannon — on a _space station_ — and aims it at her.

“Oh this will not do at all,” Damara says to herself.

Within her core, she warms up the ray guns; taking a single precious second. Then, from sixteen points on the hull, lensing turrets emerge, and each turret finds a separate target. Magnetic prisms spin wildly, reflecting the destructive energies through the beam tunnels. Sixteen devastating, asteroid-vaporizing beam pulses find their targets with micron-precision.

“ _Damara, the lower half of the Velvet Glove just got jettisoned, and we’re accelerating apart. I’m going to end up stranded out here._ ”

“All right, hang on tight, Glimmer,” Damara replies.

She releases the magnetic clamps on the legs, and boosts directly up into traffic. Her point defense systems re-target and starts blowing air-patrol drones out of the air. Then she puts power to front shields, and accelerates through the busy harbor space, crashing into and pushing aside lesser vessels, on her way into open space.

Once there, Damara accelerates aft of the Velvet Glove, and threads the needle through the spokes of the three rings between her and the little speck on the radar that is Glimmer. In the cargo bay, she readies the inertial dampers.

“Hold still, I’m going to pick you up!”

Glimmer, to her credit, does not attempt to dodge, even as Damara approaches in a suicide burn, the top of her hyperbolic return trajectory just intersecting with Glimmer’s position.

Cameras confirm that she makes it just within the cargo bay, and Damara closes the drop doors, pressurizing the cargo bay as they begin to accelerate back towards the Velvet Glove.

Already interceptor craft are mobilizing against her.

In the cargo bay, she manifests a human form. “Glimmer, is everything all right?”

Glimmer is sitting on the floor, in her space suit. “That was harrowing!” Glimmer says, and begins to undo her helmet.

“Please keep it on,” Damara advises. “I’m going to detonate the bomb now.”

A holographic screen opens in front of them, showing the six retreating thruster plumes of the aft half of the Velvet Glove.

Then, there’s a flash of light, as the equivalent of a million tons of high explosive goes off, and ignites a chain reaction in the massive engine’s fusionable fuel which undergoes fusion as intended, amplifying the explosion hundred-fold.

The multi-million ton halved spacecraft is reduced to a rapidly expanding cloud of plasma. The radiation alone manages to damage a few of the Swift Wind’s (many and redundant) external sensors, even at this distance; sensors which just barely a week prior managed survived a close-encounter with Sola.

“Hey, everybody, change of plans, Damara and I are coming to you!” Glimmer says.

* * *

Bow and Entrapta manage to reach the room where they are holding Hordak, and Entrapta puts the breaching tool on the wall next to the green force-barrier gate.

They step into an unsettling vista. Rows and rows of fluid-filled glass-walled tanks; rows and rows of clones floating in said vats. Bright lights overhead, illuminating rows and rows and rows of cables and pipes.

Two custodian clones are tending to them, and look over at the intruders.

“Do you think they notice us?” Entrapta asks.

One of them picks up a large pipe wrench, and starts walking directly towards them, the other follows soon after with a length of pipe.

“Yeah, I think they do,” Bow says. “Only so much misdirection can do.”

“Neither of them are Hordak,” Entrapta notes.

“Okay. Look away.”

She does.

Bow grabs two arrows from his belt quiver, and unfolds his bow with a flick of the wrist. Then he puts an arrow through the eye of each of them.

“Let’s find him,” Bow says.

Entrapta starts jogging down the rows, consulting the tracking in her visor as she does.

Eventually, she stops. “This one.”

Inside the cloudy fluid of the tank, hangs suspended, Hordak. A breathing tube enters his mouth, and some kind of wire enters his nose.

Entrapta moves around the tank, inspecting him. “Oh no, they stented his ports.”

“What?”

“When he was first grown, he was given all these orifices for gavage, dialysis, intra-venous lines, wasted disposal. Over time they all closed up from dis-use, and I helped him grow them over with tissue grafts; they were always tender and irritated until we did that. It really helped him with…”

She looks at Bow, who is looking at her with a quizzical expression.

“Sorry, I’m sharing his personal medical details. Anyway, they cut them open again, and stented them; oh this must be so painful! We gotta get him out of there!”

She darts over to the control panel, and drains the tank, raising the glass, and gently setting a very slimy and nude Hordak down on the grate below him. She takes off her helmet, leaving her pigtails attached to it, handing it to Bow.

“Hor-hor, it’s me,” she says, taking him by the shoulders. “I’m here to save you.”

Hordak’s eyes open wide, and in a panicked state, he extubates himself, gagging and retching in the process; he begins ripping out the lines and tubes attached to him, and then looks up at Entrapta.

“Do you recognize me?” she asks.

His surprise turns to anger.

He lunges at Entrapta, grabbing her by the neck; he manages to plant a slick foot on the grating and rises to his full heigh, lifting Entrapta, exo-skeleton, hazard suit, and all, off the ground.

“Entrapta!” Bow yells.

“Hordak! Please!” Entrapta yells.

“You are trespassing!” he says. “Prime shall _hear_ of this and his punishment shall be _merciless,_ for Prime sees all, Prime _knows all!_ ” Then he begins squeezing.

Bow nocks an arrow, and points it at Hordak, and draws half. “Let her go, or I loose.”

Hordak looks at him. “Hah! Kill this one, and ten shall take its place!”

Entrapta has by then, managed to get a hold of her collapsible stun staff. It unfolds in her hand and she shoves it in Hordak’s direction, eyes closed.

The shove puts one of the long electrodes up his nose, while the other touches the wire still hanging from the ceiling, in through Hordak’s nose.

Hordak seizes, falling over backwards, and dropping Entrapta. She lands on her feet.

“Are you okay?” Bow asks.

“No. I hate violence.”

“Is…” Bow looks at the collapsed figure. “Is he okay?”

Entrapta regards him. “It’s not Hordak.”

She shoves the body onto its side with one boot, and points to a surgical scar on his hip. “They cut the tracker from Hordak, and implanted it into this clone.”

The clone in question stirs, and Bow readies an arrow. “So, what now, do we kill him?” Bow asks.

“Where— where am I?” the clone says. “Prime, I cannot feel your light… Am I… Alone? Why have you forsaken me, big brother?” he starts sobbing.

It’s pathetic.

“How will he know I am faithful if he cannot hear my thoughts?” the clone sobs.

“We can’t just leave him here,” Entrapta says. “He’s a lot like Hordak, just… Wrong. Wrong Hordak.”

Bow holds out a hand. “Hey, there,” he says. “Let me help you to your feet.”

The clone looks up, and takes the offered hand. “Brother, how will he know?”

Bow thinks quickly. “We’ll tell him, brother,” he says. “For now, I need you to be quiet, can you do that for Prime?”

The clone nods eagerly.

Entrapta comes in with a towel, and wipes him down for goop.

Bow rushes over to the two dead technicians, and relieves one of his pants and jacket — not that the clone needs anything, his nethers are as devoid of genitalia as a mannequin.

Entrapta carefully extricates the data cable from Wrong Hordak’s nose, and with it, comes charred remnants of something that used to be alive; covered in snot and amniotic slime, pulling with it long strands of something. Wrong Hordak seems completely unbothered by this. The creature smells nauseatingly and pervasively like fried shellfish.

“It’s the nose-bug Glimmer mentioned,” Bow says.

“Has to be, yes,” Entrapta concurs.

“We need to go,” Bow says.

“No,” Entrapta says.

“No? Entrapta, we don’t have time to locate Hordak.”

“He has to pay for this,” Entrapta says. Matter-of-factly. Bow has never seen overt anger on her face before; vengefulness even. It is unsettling.

“You,” she says to Wrong Hordak. “Do you know the layout of the Velvet Glove?”

“Why, by heart,” Wrong Hordak answers.

“Good. Horde Prime… Er— He has said that… That you need to take us to a data terminal, or a server room, or something. A big and important one, and preferably close by.”

Wrong Hordak perks up. “Any way I can serve one who is beloved by Horde Prime, I shall happily oblige!”

“What are you planning to do?” Bow asks, quietly, as they follow Wrong Hordak to the green gate.

Entrapta reaches into her pack with a tentacle arm, and draws out a data crystal. It has a sickly yellow hue. She twirls it across her fingers. “Remember the Northern Reach?”

Bow nods.

“I made one of those, for the ansible network.”

They don’t get very far down the hall before they both hear the bad news:

“`We've been had.`”

“Okay, Horde Prime just told me we need to hurry!” Bow says.

“At once!” Wrong Hordak says and sets into a dead run.

They follow him down-spin, turning a corner, and run directly into four soldiers.

“Halt!”

“Brothers, why do you impede us? Horde Prime has said these two beloved must be shown to the Server Room.”

Guns are leveled at them.

Then the whole ship lurches, as acceleration takes hold.

Bow lets himself fall into a roll, draws four arrows, and as he comes up, with sweeping bow, he takes out three of the soldiers; the fourth manages to pull the trigger on his rifle before receiving an arrow, and three bullets hit Bow.

He collapses. The pain in his chest is vibrantly intense.

Entrapta’s on him in an instant. “You’re okay! Armor took them; but I think you might have a leak.”

Bow props himself up on one elbow. “We’ll patch that if we’re going spacewalking.”

“Or if they vent atmo; we should do it now.” She takes out pliers and a can of sealant, prying three armor piercing bullets out, and filling the holes with sealant. “Don’t get shot again.”

She helps Bow to his feet.

“Brothers, this was very violent; I do not understand…”

“I’ll explain later,” Bow says. “For now, the server room.”

“It is right over there,” Wrong Hordak says, and gestures.

They head to the door — a real, metal door. Wrong Hordak’s hand unlocks the panel next to it it, and they enter; Entrapta turns to the closing door, and takes out an electric welding torch and brazing filler, and proceeds to braze the two halves of the door together.

The room itself is deep and wide, though with a high ceiling.

In aisles to either side are rows and rows of white-painted computation units mounted in racks. The heat is sweltering, and the air stinks like hot plastic. The center-piece of the room is a tall tower-like structure, an antenna of some kind; starkly white and alien in design; a wide and intricate control panel sits on the floor before it.

Entrapta snaps the data crystal into a home-built adapter, then inserts it in the data cable slot on the side of the console. The lights above flicker, and the illuminated elements of the control panel change color to yellow. She takes out a spray can, and then scrawls across the controls, the words:

> _FUCK YOU_

“Feeling better?” Bow asks.

“A little.”

“We’ll get him back, somehow.”

Entrapta nods. “We should really figure out how to get back to the Swift Wind now.”

Bow looks at Wrong Hordak, who is standing there, merely smiling. “We don’t have room on the flyer for him.”

“We can’t just leave him behind! He helped us!”

“ _Only because we lied to him,_ ” Bow stage whispers.

“But he can open doors, maybe he can operate the elevators, then we don’t need the flyer!”

“Okay, fine!”

Then there’s another tremor.

“ _Hey, everybody, change of plans, Damara and I are coming to you!_ ”

“We need to find Adora,” Bow says. “Wrong Hordak, now we need to go to the throne room. So we can tell Horde Prime how helpful you’ve been.”

“Ah, how fortunate, that happens to be right close by,” Wrong Hordak says happily.

Entrapta places the rotary breaching tool on the door, and they exit, taking the hole with them, leaving the brazed-together door an obstacle to anyone wishing to stop the virus inside.

* * *

“`We've been had,`” Adora sends out. It was a trap, all along.

“You are familiar to me, Adora.” Prime says; he stands and the acolytes return to carry away the table and the water.

He saunters in a circle, over to Catra, who looks at him with adoration.

Adora blinks and looks at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The face of a people I have not seen in eight hundred years. I faced your ancestors, and their pathetic attempts at proliferating their ideals across the vastness of space. I crushed their declining empire under my heel; it gave me no pleasure.”

He stops by Catra, and pats her on the hair.

“You call them the First-Ones. A laughable name. Eternians of Grayskull. The feeble lineage of the sorceress-harem to a philosopher king; petty tyrants, peddlers of insidious oppression, constantly slaking the flames of rebellion within their borders… Though,” he adds, “in light of the existence of the Heart of Etheria, perhaps I was lucky. Such has been known to happen, once in a millennium.”

He turns to Adora.

“It is almost commendable that you so summarily reject them. She-Ra may be dead, but the weapon still exists. If these ancestors of yours were truly as capable as it would seem, then they surely did not design it so the loss of a single individual could topple the whole scheme. I need merely salvage the still-working components and supply replacements for the functionality of the missing ones. As I have done, many, many times before.”

He takes a step behind Catra.

“All that is standing between me and the prize, is your resistance. I wonder, how will they fare when they are made to fight the very symbol of their movement?”

Catra advances, Adora backs up.

“What did that monster do to you?” Adora asks.

“Do _to_ me?” Catra says, “please; I chose this.”

“You chose this?” Adora says, “I don’t understand.”

“I had my legs shot to shit when I pulled that little prison escape stunt,” Catra says, casually. “I’d have ended up a cripple, if I’d let them heal naturally.”

“Catra that’s not what I meant,” Adora says.

“I know what you meant,” Catra says. “You know better than anyone that I haven’t had a good life. It has always been full of pain, struggle, anger, fear; and so much of it your fault. Everyone who ever cared for me, left me. I realized the problem was with _me,_ and Prime? He offered me a way out. A new purpose. He let me into his light, and I left behind all the darkness in my soul.”

“Catra, this isn’t you,” Adora protests.

“Oh but it is. I am happy here; I’m useful; my skills are appreciated, my judgments aren’t second-guessed at every turn, and nobody is poised to stab me in the back.”

Catra stops a step away from Adora, and reaches out with her right; palm up. “You could join me. We could be together, here; be happy. Prime eases all suffering.” Her right eye is silvery and faceted. “I know you’ve seen your fair share, by my hand.”

Adora looks past Catra, to Prime. “What is it you hope to accomplish with this?” she yells.

“It’s amusing, that you thought you could achieve victory through deception,” Horde Prime says. “You two have a lot of catching up to do. Catra, you know what must be done.” Then he turns, and walks with purposeful strides out of the throne room.

“So. Now we can discuss this in privacy,” Catra says.

“There’s nothing _to_ discuss,” Adora says. “Cat, please. Whatever hold he has on you —”

“He doesn’t have a hold on me, Ad, you idiot. I _want_ to serve him!”

Adora takes out her shield. “You’re coming with me; we can _fix_ you.”

Catra laughs. “Oh? And what if I don’t want to? Are you going to drag me kicking and screaming, and force your will on me? That doesn’t sound very heroic.”

“He’s mind-controlling you, isn’t he? Catra, you have to resist.”

“There’s nothing to resist, you idiot; when is it going to sink in that I’m acting by my own free will?!” Catra says. “I’ve been laden with glorious purpose; for the first time in my life. Not just rising in the ranks, or ruling the world. This is _bigger_ don’t you see?”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

Catra takes out a long slender magazine from a pouch in her belt, and a shotgun shell. The magazine loads flush with the body of her wrist weapon, and the breech tilts up on the other barrel.

Then she charges the magazine-fed pistol caliber weapon by a handle. “Then I guess I’ll just have to kick your ass and make you stay.”

She bares her claws, and charges, closing the distance between them in two quick steps and swinging in for a roundhouse kick.

Adora brings the shield up, and the impact almost knocks her off balance; Catra dances back and drops low for a sweep kick which Adora jumps.

Catra rolls backwards, and to her feet in a springing motion.

“Are you just going to hid behind that shield all day?” Catra asks.

She advances again and launches into a swift kick combo, which Adora deftly blocks and parries, high roundhouse to mid side kick; a butterfly spinning kick which leaves claw marks in the paint of her shield with a shriek.

As Catra lands from that daring attack, Adora charges forward and connects with a shield bash, throwing Catra to the ground.

“Nice legs, too bad your footwork is shit,” Adora jeers back.

Catra kips up and sprints forward, leaping into the air for another attack; Adora braces only for Catra’s kicking foot to grab the edge of the shield with her clawed metal toes. She flips back and puts her weight into pulling on the shield, wresting Adora’s guard aside, pulling her off balance.

Adora stumbles and Catra runs her left hand’s augmented claws across her side, slicing through clothes and ripping the second-skin armor suit underneath, drawing three lines of fire across Adora’s flank.

“First blood,” Catra says.

Adora turns her uninjured side to her, shield in hand, then lets the shield drop, catching it by the edge; and with a spin, throws the heavy metal disk directly act Catra with great force. The enhancements Glimmer could conjure on such short notice might be detrimental in the long run, but they are more than effective now.

Catra ducks and rolls forward, launching herself at Adora, who is forced to backpedal, under a barrage of punches and claw swipes. No sooner has Catra gained momentum than Adora hops back, holding out a hand, and the shield comes flying back to her, having curved around the room; Adora catches it and immediately leaps forward into a flying edge strike that Catra brings up a shin to block, denting the armor plate on her leg.

She stumbles back from the force of the blow, and Adora presses the advantage, going in for a combination of kicks and shield strikes. Catra blocks, parries and weaves, until she sees the opening; Adora over-commits to a strike, and Catra knocks the shield up with her right arm, levels her left, and unloads the rubber slug from her shotgun.

The bullet hits Adora in the chest, knocking the air out of her.

Catra dances back, aims at Adora, and Adora brings up her shield to parry. Catra shoots twice, pistol rounds ricocheting off the shield back in her general direction; the third shot bounces back right past Catra’s ear, and she thinks better of emptying her magazine of armor-piercing pistol ammo into it.

Adora staggers, clutching her chest.

Catra points her gun at Adora’s foot, and shoots the laser; in less than a quarter of a second, smoke rises from her boot, and then Adora cries out in pain, second-degree burn forming on her foot.

Catra takes out another rubber bullet shell, and loads it.

Adora falls to one knee. She cradles her burnt foot with a hand.

“So. Ready to surrender?” Catra asks.

“Come one, Catra,” Adora shoots back, “this is so not your style; you’ve never listened to anyone in your life, are you really going to start now?”

Catra strides forward, and levels the gun at Adora’s face.

“Surrender!”

“What are you going to do, shoot me in the head?”

Catra moves her aim and shoots the shotgun at Adora’s shoulder. The impact dislocates her shoulder, and Adora screams. She lets her second knee down, cradling the elbow of her left arm, which now hangs two inches lower than it should. Her left ear hears nothing but ringing.

Catra just reloads the shotgun again.

She puts a foot on Adora’s thigh, and digs her claws in, eliciting a wince.

“Hah—” Adora manages “— you’re going to have to do better than that!”

Catra frowns. “Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this.”

“I could do this all day, Cat, you know that.”

Catra drags her foot down Adora’s thigh, metal claws ripping fabric, armor, and flesh.

“Ow,” Adora mutters, as the bleeding begins from the four substantial gashes.

Catra points her gun at Adora again. “Don’t make me blind you with this laser.”

Adora chooses that moment to twist her elbow, abducting and relocating her shoulder joint. “Ow!”

“Do you hear what I’m saying?!” Catra insists. “Don’t make me do these things to you, you stubborn asshole! You’ve lost! Admit it! I don’t wanna hurt you any more than I have to, you hear?!” She’s almost pleading.

Adora swats Catra’s left arm aside with her shield, lurches upwards on two hurting legs, grabbing Catra by the shoulder with her free hand and planting the edge of the shield across her nose. Bone shatters, blood gushes forth immediately.

Catra stumbles back.

“Please, Catra, I don’t want to hurt you either,” Adora says. “We have to go.”

Catra blinks.

“Adora,” she says, nose utterly clogged, “what have you— what have _I_ —” she clutches her head with both hands, as if a massive spike of headache overtakes her. “No!” She yelps. “Please!”

She stumbles, and rolls, kicking her legs. “ _You can’t do this to me!_ ”

“Catra, what’s going on?!” Adora yells, and runs to her.

Catra rolls to her feet with the nimble grace of a dancer, aims at Adora and opens fire; Adora cowers behind her shield, and the shooting stops as quickly as it began.

She peeks out, and sees Catra restraining her left arm with her right, forcing the gun away from Adora.

“Catra!” Adora yells.

“Thanks!” Catra grunts. “You! Stubborn!” She growls. Then she seizes, convulses, and briefly falls into a fit on the floor. Adora runs to her, and the fit stops.

Catra looks up at her with pleading eyes. “Adora, you scared it; I can feel it digging in deeper —” she winces, and screams in pain “ _Please! Kill me!_ ”

Adora recoils in horror.

“ _No!_ ” Catra screams, then her back arches backwards, and relaxes. Catra rolls over on her side, and with mechanical movements, rises to her feet with mechanical movements.

She reaches back to her belt, and pulls out a pair of specially-shaped forceps, then very carefully inserts it into her nose, and pulls gently on something. “Don’t misbehave, little bug,” she says in a calm voice. Then she lets go, removes the forceps from the blood-filled cavity, and tosses aside the dirty tool.

Catra’s body language changes back. She wipes a trail of blood down her right sleeve. “You broke my nose… Damn, that’s annoying!”

“Catra?”

“Sorry about that little lapse of judgement, you upset the little friend that lives in my nose.”

Two thoughts floating around in Adora’s head come together, given the evidence: Tallstar’s comment about Prime’s mind-control, and Glimmer’s description of Hordak’s fate.

Adora eyes the discarded forceps.

“Oh no you don’t,” Catra says.

Adora runs for them. Catra sweeps the laser across her, setting fire to her jacket.

Lunging, Adora grabs the tool and rolls to extinguish the flames; then charges at Catra, who opens fire. The shield blocks three of the four shots, the last one hits Adora in the hip, going straight through her under-clothes armor.

Adora crashes into Catra, bowling them both over. Adora comes out on top, pinning Catra under her; Catra’s head hitting the floor hard. She grabs Catra’s left arm and slams it on the floor, then hammers the shield down on the gun, denting the chassis significantly.

Then she puts her knees on Catra’s upper arms, throws the shield aside, and takes the forceps in her right hand, Catra’s forehead with her left, and takes aim.

Then Catra curls her feet around and digs her toe claws into Adora’s back, pulling down with the strange hyper-mobility of her mechanical legs, ripping ten gashes down Adora’s back.

Adora winces and lets out a battle cry, overcoming the pain and plunging the forceps into Catra’s bloody mess of a nose. Catra yelps. “Stop it!”

“Sorry!”

Grasping around, Adora thinks she feels something through the tool, and grabs it. She pulls, and meets great resistance.

Catra screams in pain.

“I’m sorry!” Adora yells, through tears, and keeps pulling. There’s a wet tearing noise.

Then Catra digs her feet in and bucks her hips hard; Adora looses grip on the blood-soaked tool, and Catra brings her left arm up, connecting with Adora’s jaw, sending her tumbling to the side.

Adora tries to rise, but the pain of her injuries only lets her get up on one knee.

Catra rises slowly, getting her legs under her, and standing with a wide stance.

She’s unsteady on her legs. She looks up at Adora. “Ad,” she says, speech slurred. “Sorry. For everything.”

“Catra! I’m going to take you home! I promise!” Adora says.

“You… Promise?” Catra says, almost delirious.

Then she looks down at her gun, slaps the magazine back into place, runs the charging handle —

“Catra, _No!_ ” she screams.

— points it at her chin, and shoots.

Her head jerks upwards, pink mist fills the air.

She falls over backwards. Dead.

* * *

Damara makes her approach to the eighth ring, matching velocities with the spinning structure, and lands the Swift Wind on the outside of it, with magnetic landing feet.

In the control center, she has her physical form occupy the helmsman’s seat where Bow normally sits.

“So what do we do now?” Glimmer asks, standing next to her.

“We board it,” Damara says to her. A portal opens next to Glimmer. “Go get —”

In the black sky above them, visible on the wall-screens of the control center, a portal jump ends, revealing a ship as large as the Velvet Glove, but nowhere near as spindly. Heavy armor, rotund, barrel-shaped hull.

“That’s the Iron Fist,” Damara says. “Hurry! Or we’re all dead!”

* * *

Bow, Wrong Hordak, and Entrapta turn the last corner, and Wrong Hordak points to the tall double-doors in the distance; a proper gate. “That’s the throne room!”

Then hundreds of green flashes appear around them, filling the hallway with clone soldiers.

“Shit,” Bow says. “I did not see that coming.”

* * *

Adora collapses under the pain of her injuries.

She crawls over to Catra’s fallen form, grabbing the shield on the way. The bullet wound in her hip is shallow, but she keeps pressure on it to be safe. “No. Please, no. Not like this,” she mutters.

She takes a pulse.

None.

“ _Please._ ”

She holds a hand in front of Catra’s lips.

No breath.

“I was supposed to _save_ you,” she says, tears welling up.

Then she collapses on top of her, and the tears begin flowing.

She lies there, in the twilight of the galactic emperor’s throne room, sobbing.

The doors to the throne room opens, and a group of acolytes, accompanied by dozens and dozens of soldiers, enter.

One of them steps forward, and jitters a little, as Horde Prime assumes direct control of him. “I’m sorry for the needless waste, Adora. It did not have to be like this. Please; come quietly now. You’ve lost; I have your ship, and your compatriots in hand.”

Adora looks at Catra, and caresses her cheek. Then she looks up at Horde Prime’s vassal.

Straining, she gets up on one knee, then gets a foot under herself; and the other. She hooks an arm under Catra’s shoulders, one under her knees; and lifts. The gashes in her thigh bleed profusely under the exertion.

With a heave, she throws Catra’s body over one shoulder, holding her by the metal of her legs.

The she turns to Horde Prime’s vassal.

“No.”

She closes her eyes, and digs deep. She pours all her pain, all her love, all the injustice in the world, and all of herself, into the starlight in her heart.

It builds, and builds, and builds, until it’s as if the very explosion that vaporized half the Velvet Glove, is right here, in the throne room.

  
So be it if the searing radiance consumes her for it.  


* * *

She is standing in a field of lush green, under the twilit night sky; full of stars, the moons of Etheria hanging overhead like pearls on a necklace.

Before her stands a woman, with skin as dark as rich soil, curling horns adorning her temples, and smoke-like wings flowing easily in the breeze behind her.

A spade-tipped tail wraps around her leg; she is dressed in a tunic fashioned from tanned hide. Across her shoulder is draped a brilliantly white sheepskin.

To her left, another woman appears. She is winged like Angella and Glimmer, and in her hand rests the very staff Glimmer inherited from her father. She is dressed in complex folk-dress, all in purple hues, Her sash is white silk, long and flowing lightly in the wind.

To her right, stands a human woman, in a white, skin-tight suit, barefoot. She is resting her hands on the pommel of a hefty sword fashioned from bluish metal, inlaid in the cross-guard with the stelliferous Runestone of the Aegis. Across her back is hung a large rifle of First-Ones’ make.

“Who are you?” Adora asks.

A hand comes to rest on Adora’s shoulder and she looks to its owner, seeing a hulking woman in white plate armor, with a golden glaive resting over her shoulder.

“Mara?”

«We are you,» the demon woman says.

She speaks in a tongue Adora has never heard, and yet perfectly understands.

«We are She-Ra. I am Scheherazade, the first She-Ra on Etheria.»

«I am Stella Nova,» says the angel, «the last She-Ra who was free; you know my bloodline by my great-great granddaughter, Glimmer of the Moonstone.»

«I am Parabell, the first of Grayskull’s line to be She-Ra.»

«And me, you know,» Mara says. «And you know why I was the last.»

«And you, Adora,» Scheherazade says, «are first again.»

“But,” Adora protests, “The Aegis is destroyed. I can no longer become She-Ra.”

«And there was a time when it did not yet exist, and yet She-Ra _did,_ » Stella Nova says.

«Neat as this is,» Parabell says, twirling the Aegis, «the words are not ‹Aegis is mine to command,› are they?»

«She-Ra was never Grayskull’s to claim,» Mara says. «She was always Etheria’s. But you already knew that.»

* * *

  
And yet. Adora is still there. The light has taken nothing of her.  


She opens her eyes, and sees clearly the cowering clones, despite the all-consuming light.

“ _For the Hope of Etheria, Starlight is Mine to Command,_ ” she says.


	11. She-Ra, Returned

The blinding radiance abides.

Adora remains. She-Ra was never an eight-foot tall amazon; she is and has always been the wielder of _starlight._ It flows under her skin, and within her soul.

No longer blinded, the clone soldiers are quick to level their guns at her again.

“Shoot her!” Prime commands.

Adora raises her shield, and from it unfurls a translucent sheet of silky, flowing light, billowing gently.

Automatic rifle fire ring out in the echoing throne room, the bullets divert without even hitting the shield, redirected by the gossamer field of force, motherly and mentorial.

“Cease fire!”

A weapon. She reaches down to her hip, where, for no particular reason other than sentiment, she chose today to wear a small utility knife with a bone handle, upon which is burnt ‘ _A + C_ ’ and on the other side ‘ _∞_ ’.

She holds it out, and from it springs a slender sword made entirely of light; its hilt stylized wings, and its blade is wide and long.

Lacking a better option, she throws it, and as it leaves her hand it takes on a life of its own. Faster than the eye can see, it impales the first soldier, extracts itself, and then sweeps across the group, stabbing and slashing, as if wielded by an invisible hand, full of transcendent violence.

In moments, all of the clones are dead, save one: Prime’s vassal.

“You should have let me go when you had the chance,” Adora says.

Then the blade decapitates him as well.

Adora sets off running for the door.

* * *

A dozen rifles are pointed at them.

“Why do you arrest us, brothers?” Wrong Hordak asks.

“We surrender,” Bow says, dropping his bow and holding up his hands.

One of the soldiers jerks his head to the side, and suddenly strides forward, and puts the muzzle of his rifle directly in Bow’s visor. “No,” he says smoothly. “Now you d—”

A glowing blade goes through his throat.

Bow immediately grabs Entrapta, and covers her visor with a hand. “Don’t look,” he says.

Then a half dozen more glowing blades start tearing through the crowd of armed soldiers like scythes through hay.

In moments, the wall of guns and body armor has been reduced to a field of gore.

Through it, comes Adora, walking tall, and carrying Catra slung over her shoulder.

Starlight shines about her like a halo, but there’s not a hint of satisfaction on her face; only a resigned determination, carrying Cometa’s shield in her free hand.

“She-Ra,” Bow says.

“Bow, Entrapta…” Adora looks at Wrong Hordak. “Hordak?”

“Actually, no,” Entrapta says.

A portal opens a ways down the hall, and Glimmer steps out. She looks about and spots them. “We need to go _right now!_ ” she yells.

Entrapta picks up Wrong Hordak when he doesn’t immediately begin running, and they all rush to the portal.

From there, they emerge into the control center.

Bow takes one look at the sky above them, seeing the Iron Fist, and jumps into a chair, throwing off his hazard suit helmet and gloves, and putting on the helmsman’s mask and gloves. “From the frying pan and into the fire,” he says.

“We’re doing a portal jump, now!” Damara says. “They are already tracking weapons on us.” A tremor goes through the Swift Wind. “Correction, they are shooting; if we take one more hit we’re dead.”

They jaunt — still attached to a section of hull from the spinning ring, which results in them ripping it clean off the Velvet Glove. Being still in orbit, Bow brings them out on the other side of the gas giant.

There, Bow initiates a burn, putting them on a hyperbolic escape trajectory in a flat minute, by sacrificing engine integrity for maximum performance.

Just as the interceptors begin jumping in, Bow jaunts them again, this time interplanetary, and starts the work of putting them on a path to interstellar space.

“We’re dead in the water here,” Bow says. “Our engine are going to give out before we get a good trajectory — even just an elliptical one — out to the one-light year mark. Very real chance they’ll find us now and either shoot us down or board us.”

Adora looks down, at the floor under her feet, and then to Mara, floating by Bow. She calls on the starlight — it heals people; why not ships?

“Wait a minute,” Entrapta says. “Engine integrity restored! What?!”

“Get us out of here as fast as possible, Bow,” Adora says.

“Roger, Captain.”

Three tense minutes later, without a single interceptor appearing, Bow sends them a light year away from the star system.

Now, they are home free.

“Oh no,” Glimmer says, looking at Adora.

Adora lets Catra’s body fall into her arms again, in a bridal carry. The bullet wound is grisly.

“Is she—?” Bow asks, getting out of his chair.

Adora doesn’t answer.

Catra’s feet hit the floor with a ‘clank’ and Adora caresses the cooling cheek of the one who was once her oldest friend. A sisterly bond, cut by fate, this time with finality.

“Cat,” she says quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

Entrapta turns away, and Damara comforts her.

Glimmer takes off her helmet, in respect, and tears begin rolling down her cheeks. Bow comes up to her, putting an arm around her shoulders; he draws a shaking breath.

Wrong Hordak stares at the scene with childish incomprehension.

“I promised I’d take you home. S— so that’s what I’ll do.”

She weeps quietly, and her tears fall on Catra’s lifeless face,

“I— I’ll have to dig out that will we made when we signed up; I can’t remember where you wanted to be buried.”

Adora brushes a stray lock of hair away from her face. At some point her ponytail came undone in the fight.

Starlight blooms, softly, and with powerful slowness.

Quietly, Adora begins to sing, a song once written after a great defeat, known in her time as _The Soldier’s Lament:_

 _Where now the musket and soldier?_  
_Where is the drum that was beat?_  
_Where is the beret and tornister_  
_And the marching feet?_

 _Where are the lips on the trumpet?_  
_Where are the banners held neat?_  
_Where now the cheers from the parapet_  
_And the victory sweet?_

 _They have passed like leaves on the river_  
_Like wind on a ship with no sail_  
_The nights have gone down in the West fleeing from daylight pale_  
_Who shall gather the names of the dead men we burn_  
_Or behold one day our glorius return_

She pulls Catra’s lifeless form close. “ _If— If I could have one wish, I wish you’d come back to me._ ”

“ _Come back to me,_ ” Adora sobs. “ _Come back to me._ ”

Catra draws a shallow breath.

Adora jolts with surprise, wiping her eye with one hand and checking for a pulse.

It is faint, but there.

“Everybody,” Adora says, sniffling, “cover your eyes for a moment.”

They do.

It is still blindingly bright.

* * *

Catra comes to, feeling weak; like she is more in the next world than this one, barely holding up.

She opens her eyes and looks up, to see Adora, hovering over her, smiling warmly, with streams of tears down her cheeks.

“H— hey, Adora,” Catra says; barely above a whisper.

Adora pulls her into a painfully tight hug.

It is revitalizing; somehow, and she finds the strength to raise her arms and reciprocate. She digs her claws into Adora’s back; and she doesn’t ever really want to let go. She buries her face in Adora’s shoulder; it smells like gunpowder and blood, and under it, _Adora._ And for a moment it’s like they’re back in the military academy once more, sharing a bunk for warmth and safety.

They sit like that for a moment that doesn’t really want to end either.

Adora looks up. “Damara, if you can prep a bed in the infirmary,” she says, gently. “Everyone else; there’s work to do.”

They all file out of the control center, leaving Adora and Catra alone.

The control center is quiet and twilit.

Around them on the floor are strewn pieces of scrap — ruined prosthetics, torn apart by starlight. In their place is flesh and bone, once more, bleached devoid of color by the intense radiance.

“Cat,” Adora says. “I’m going to take you to the infirmary now.”

A few moments go by before Catra answers, with a small nod.

“You’re safe here, you know that, right?”

Another small nod.

“I’m going to carry you, is that okay?”

Nod.

Adora shifts, her joints protesting to having sat on her feet for so long. She shimmies an arm though Catra’s embrace, and hooks the other under Catra’s knees; then stands.

She’s light. Even through a jacket and second-skin armor, she feels Catra’s angular figure against her; all pointy hips and defined ribs. Whatever she’s done to herself, proper feeding hasn’t been on the agenda.

They take the elevator to the lower level of the main hull and reach the infirmary. Five beds, clinical decor, and all the advanced machinery in the next room.

Damara is there, hovering a foot off the floor.

Adora goes to the bed, and gently sets Catra down on the adaptive mattress, covered with a disposable sheet.

Catra lets go of her back, claws coming away unblemished; having not pierced the thin body armor suit under Adora’s jacket. As her head lands on the pillow, she looks up at Adora, and for a moment looks pained. Then her eyes fall shut, and her head lolls to the side.

Adora stands there, watching like a hawk, until she’s confirmed that Catra is indeed just sleeping; slow, shallow breaths, her fingers twitching a little.

Damara hands her a pair of scissors. “For her clothes; I don’t imagine she’ll want to wake up in that outfit.”

A one-shoulder blouse with Prime’s sigil on the left breast; a synthetic belt with light grey pouches, and a pair of shorts. Strangely infantilizing, if you read into it.

Adora gets to work, carefully cutting the fabric away. Damara hooks Catra up to four different monitoring machines: a cap full of wires, a couple of electrodes on her chest, a clamp on her finger.

“She should have full-body imaging done, as well as a blood and metabolism workup which will require blood, stool, and urine,” Damara says. “I’m not going to lay an IV.”

Adora grabs a pair of cleaning wipes, and tries to get the worst of the blood out of Catra’s fur, then finally, she lifts her once more, while Damara pulls the disposable sheet. Laying her back down, Damara grabs a blanket, and lays it over Catra’s sleeping form.

Adora bends down and kisses her on the forehead.

Then she looks up at Damara.

“Is… Is it okay if I stay here?” Adora says.

“I’ll get you a chair,” Damara says. She knows better than to argue that Adora should get some real rest.

* * *

They convene in the mess hall four hours later, for an informal debrief and a hot meal.

Bow has been plotting the course that will take them across a quarter the galaxy, avoiding known spaces of galactic Horde occupation.

Damara and Entrapta has been tending to the damage the Swift Wind has suffered.

Glimmer has been babysitting Wrong Hordak.

“Where’s Adora?” Entrapta asks.

“She’s in the infirmary with Catra,” Damara says.

“Has she been there the whole time?” Glimmer asks. “She should get some rest.”

“She insists,” Damara says. “I understand why; I’ve been there myself. Speaking of rest, Entrapta, after this meal, I must require that you actually go lie down.”

“But—”

“As much as I appreciate there are still repairs to do, your performance has been declining in the last hour. We cannot afford mistakes due to your tiredness.”

Entrapta looks down on her tray of little cubes of food. “Yes, Damara.”

Glimmer looks at Entrapta and then Bow. “Why are neither of you properly dressed, again?”

Entrapta is in her underwear again with only hair and a single of the tentacle arms mounted to a belt, like a tail, and is furthermore weightless. Bow has taken off his shirt.

“It’s warm enough not to be?” Bow suggests. “I’ve been spending too long in a hazard suit today.”

“Also, my coverall was a mess and I didn’t want to change into anything else. You should try it!” Entrapta says.

“Yeah, maybe some other time.” Glimmer says. She’s conservatively wearing a vest over a dress, with leggings but without shoes.

“Where’s Wrong Hordak?” Entrapta asks.

“I told him to go meditate until I came back for him,” Glimmer says. “We need to just figure out what to do to him.”

“Any ideas?” Bow asks.

“Space him?” Glimmer suggests, only halfway in jest.

“No!” Entrapta says. “I am responsible for him; I accidentally lobotomized him with my stun baton. Which just goes to show, I should never be allowed weapons.”

“He’s been very well behaved, compared to his brothers,” Damara notes. “Several of whom are right now occupying the makeshift morgue.”

“I guess, since all of you are gainfully occupied with everything else, it falls to me to handle the people?” Glimmer says.

Adora comes in, just then, looking pensive. She has changed, at least, but not into real clothes; just a suit of second skin — in white.

“There she is,” Bow says. “The woman of the hour.”

Adora looks up. “Hey guys.”

“How’s Catra?” Glimmer asks.

“She’s better. Her vitals are looking good, she’s just sleeping for now.”

Glimmer gets up and darts into the kitchen to fetch a tray of food for Adora.

“So, what happened in there?” Bow asks.

Adora shakes her head. “Prime had brain-washed her, with one of those bugs Glimmer saw him use on Hordak. We… We had a fight, verbal first, then —” she brings up her hands in a boxing guard and throws a jab “— you know. She shot me a few times. I got her in the nose, and then things turned really creepy. In the end… I think she decided she’d rather die than fall under Prime’s control again, so —” she puts a finger gun to her chin and mimics shooting.

Glimmer returns with a tray and hands it to Adora. “Adora?”

“Hm?”

“You’re taller.”

“What? No.”

Glimmer looks at Damara. “You can measure her, right?”

Damara looks up. “Yeah, you’ve actually grown a full inch and a half in height, since last I took your biometrics, Adora.”

“Let’s chalk that up to weird coincidence, and Adora can tell us how She-Ra came back without the Aegis,” Bow says.

Adora takes a seat, and does up her hair. “Glory got me my starlight back,” she says. “When… When we were in there, and it was all over, and Catra was—” She looks away. “I called on it, then, and.”

She takes a spoonful of ready-to-eat stew.

“Then I had a weird dream; I think about the former incarnations of She-Ra. And then she was back. By which I mean, I don’t transform anymore, and my powers are all different except the starlight, but even starlight is more intense and powerful now. Oh, and Glimmer, does the name Stella Nova mean anything to you?”

“Uh, maybe?”

“She says she was your great-great grandmother; she was the last She-Ra before the First-Ones created the Aegis.”

Glimmer blinks. “Oh… Kay? I mean, it’s not that relevant, but cool that I’m related to an incarnation of She-Ra I guess.”

“So, what went down on your end?” Adora says, between spoonfuls.

“I helped blow up the aft half of the Velvet Glove,” Glimmer says. “And then I melted a blast door and got picked up by Damara.”

Adora nods. “He has a spare Velvet Glove, and a spare Iron Fist too.”

“Still, that’s one less.”

“We didn’t find Hordak,” Entrapta says. “But we did upload a nasty virus of my own design into a mainframe. And we got Wrong Hordak!”

“I still can’t believe we actually succeeded,” Bow says. “Glimmer’s home-made stealth spells saved the day.”

“You flatter!” Glimmer protests, smiling warmly.

* * *

Catra wakes up, groggy. She orients herself, and finds blue-hued walls, and medical equipment.

She’s lying in an infirmary bed. Again. This time with more strange wires attached to her; an entire hat of them; she begins pulling them off.

Getting the cap off, she runs a hand through her hair, finding braids — Ew. Those, still.

She looks at her hand. It is pale _white._ According to the vitals monitor, her heart rate jumps ten beats per minute just then.

White is the _worst_ color.

She throws aside the covers, and finds that her legs are white too, from mid-thigh and down. Her toes still wiggle, though, so that’s good. The fact that she’s nude is… Well, at least she’s not still wearing something from Prime’s fucking tailor.

She shudders. Prime can go get _fucked,_ and the fact that she can even _think_ that thought is immensely reassuring.

Or is it? This could be a dream.

“Hello, Catra.”

She looks up, and sees an unfamiliar human woman, dark complexion and darker hair, with purple holograms floating about her.

“And you are?” Catra asks.

“I am Damara, the keeper of this spacecraft; a personality construct, if you know what that is.”

Catra nods. “Do you have a mirror?”

Damara snaps her fingers, and a reflective surface springs into existence beside Catra. She has a diffuse lighter scar across the bridge of her nose. Her faceted prosthetic right eye is gone, replaced with a white iris and black slit pupil. Then she turns her back and looks over her shoulder, at her spine in the mirror. A white scar running from her tail to her neck.

She feels weak, and the reason presents itself readily: her enhancement tattoos are gone.

“Shit,” Catra mutters.

Damara looks at her, somewhat intently.

“What?”

“Adora has wished to be notified of your waking, she would like to talk to you. However, first I need your permission to do so.”

Catra waves her off. “No. No, don’t bother her with me.”

“Second… Adora is my daughter.”

“What?”

“She’s my daughter. Which means I care for her. And I know she cares very deeply for you. She’s been sitting by your side for over three hours.”

Catra looks back with a level gaze.

“You’ll be disappointing me, in addition, if you decide to hurt her. Understood?”

“Piss off,” Catra says. “And get me some clothes, please.”

Damara points to a pile on the next bed over. Underwear, loose pants and top in dark red. Then she vanishes into thin air.

“Freak,” Catra mutters. She gets dressed — the garments are comfortable, fitted, and high quality, surprisingly. Then as she steps into the hallway, it occurs to her that she doesn’t know where anything is.

“Damara?” she asks.

No reply.

“Any chance I could get — how does this First-Ones’ bullshit work — a glowing line in the floor or something, showing me where to—”

Down the hall, Adora comes running around the corner. “Catra! You’re awake.”

Inwardly, Catra sneers; that bitch went and ratted her out.

Adora comes running; not into a hug as Catra might have feared, but slows to a jog, and approaches.

She’s dressed in a white body-suit, barefoot and with her hair down. “Catra,” she repeats.

“Hey, Adora.”

“Hungry?”

“Famished.”

Adora takes out a communicator, and sends off a quick letter, fingers dancing across the screen. Catra always found that annoying, typing on that tiny keyboard; too small for her finger pads, and without the tactility of a proper typewriter.

“Let me show you to your room, I’ve ordered you a meal.”

“Thanks,” Catra mutters.

Adora walks past her, and Catra falls in behind, trotting along with Adora’s long strides.

“How— how are you?” Catra asks. “I… I shot you a few times, back there.”

“I’m fine,” Adora says. “Magical healing does that.” She stops, and points to an unassuming door. It slides aside, and Catra looks in.

“Bed, desk, closet, shower and toilet; you’ll figure it out.”

Adora presents her with a communicator, ruggedized model. “Here.”

Catra takes it.

“I know— I know you like to have your space; and you might need some time to process this. So…” she takes a deep breath. “Take your time, okay? We’re on the way back; it’ll take a few days.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Catra says.

“I know you probably feel fine right now, but it’d ease some worries if you agreed to submit to some tests — nothing invasive. Blood test, and the like; and a full-body scan — like an X-ray.”

Catra shakes her head. “Not right now.”

“Yeah, nothing urgent.”

* * *

They’ve dropped back out of jaunt into the vast desert of interstellar space. Partially to run a lengthy course correction burn, partially for external repairs.

It’s getting dark, inside.

Damara has decided on a diurnal cycle aboard the ship. In the background she runs psych profilers on the others — her ‘crew’ as she is increasingly fond of thinking of them — and adjusts the day length appropriately, adding or removing a few hours before dark.

Adora spends the time thinking, listlessly wandering the halls of her ship, and occasionally being inexplicably tailed by Wrong Hordak, who takes direction from basically everyone, and fulfills simple requests with almost religious fervor.

Entrapta and Damara are hard at work getting the Swift Wind up to speed again; and if Adora has them figured out, they are becoming fast friends. Perhaps Entrapta thinks of Damara differently, seeing as she is the ship and not just a person.

Bow tends to astrogation and Glimmer is ‘making sure everyone is thriving, not just surviving.’ But Adora has seen them, talking quietly in a corner of the mess, or in the control center, laughing about some in-joke or other. As old friends do.

A trip to the infirmary, and stepping on the scales and stadiometer confirms that she’s grown a few inches, and put on a few pounds somehow. Her muscle tone is becoming more defined as well, and the white scarring indicative of her magically healed injuries is fading fast.

What’s more unsettling is that she returned there an hour later and found out it was an ongoing process.

She’s already noticed that doorways are smaller than they used to be, and the captain’s chair feels like a deeper seat. A third trip to the infirmary, gives her three points, and lets her draw a line through them. By the end of the week she’ll be almost seven feet tall.

Her current working hypothesis that she’s very slowly transforming into She-Ra. Somehow.

Whether there’ll be a way to turn back once the process completes, is a good question.

At the very least she’ll need a new wardrobe.

* * *

Glimmer’s in the kitchen, with Wrong Hordak, and the smell emanating into then entire mess is alluring.

Adora heads past the six long tables and the bar, and into the mid-sized kitchen. The layout reminds her of a ship’s kitchen she saw once aboard a Horde frigate. Every table has a lip, and every pot has a clamp-on lid. Very low-tech compared to the rest of the Swift Wind, really.

Wrong Hordak is wearing a floral-print tunic, with an apron; his hair has obviously been styled. He’s stirring a big stock pot, and notices Adora.

“Hello, honored sister, we are preparing meals for the sustenance of all aboard this glorious vessel, in the spirit of convenience and well-being.”

Adora doesn’t know how to respond to that, and is fortunately saved by the appearance of Glimmer, with a tub of peeled potatoes, which she slams down on the counter, next to a mandoline. She’s wearing a matching apron and floral-print sun-dress. Her hair is styled as well, neatly swept to one side.

Adora is suddenly conscious that she’s only wearing a white second-skin suit, and that her hair is a mess from the hour or so she spent trying fruitlessly to fall sleep, tossing and turning.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” she asks, and starts rapidly cutting the potatoes julienne.

“I— I didn’t know you could cook?”

“Learned the basics in the army,” she explains, “and I know how to follow a recipe. The fabricator library has a pattern for pre-peeled potatoes, isn’t that neat? It’s a battle to get time on that thing; Entrapta and Damara are hogging it to make spare parts — but I am _not_ eating another MRE, I tell you what!” She waves a half potato menacingly.

“It’s— it’s nothing important. Keep up the good work.”

“Spit it out, Adora.”

Adora walks into the kitchen, barefoot. “Listen, my body’s changing.”

“What, hopefully not like you’re ‘becoming a woman’ or what? Aren’t you twenty?”

“No, no; I think I’m turning into She-Ra. Permanently.”

Glimmer looks her up and down. She ventures a poke on Adora’s upper arm. “Yeah, now that you say it…”

“But it doesn’t come with a snazzy white outfit this time.”

“You need a makeover?”

“I just need a little help.”

Glimmer tosses the potato aside, and goes to rinse her hands. She throws the apron on the counter. “Wrong Hordak, can you do the potatoes while keeping an eye on the pot? Watch your fingers on the mandoline.”

“Of course, sister.”

Glimmer heads out of the kitchen. “Come on if you’re coming.” Once out in the mess hall, she lets go, and lifts off the ground, gliding along weightlessly, propelled by her wings. “Mind if I fly?”

“No, no.” Adora still isn’t sold on the whole zero-gravity thing, and keeps pace on foot.

“So, what’s the deal with him?” Adora asks, pointing back at the kitchen.

“I’m trying to show him kindness — as in, what kindness looks like; an alternative philosophy to the one he was taught in the Horde.”

“That’s Angella’s advice.”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you cooking in the middle of the night, again?”

“Can’t sleep; can’t bear to sit still. This whole place could really use some green…”

“What?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

* * *

Adora gets woken up by a blaring alarm.

“ _Battle stations everyone, we’re being intercepted!_ ” Damara calls out over the intercom.

She leaps out of bed, having never taken off the new body-suit Glimmer made her but finding that the extra length she put in the sleeves and legs is now no longer a bad fit.

On the desk, her utility belt. The shield is by the door, laced up with a white silk sash for transport; next to a pair of boots wisely fabricated a size too large — a slight wedge heel, a model which Glimmer favors, because friends to not let friends wear shitty shoes.

(She always liked that style, but already being the tall one in the relationship confined her to flats. Figures now, single, and going to be seven feet tall, she might as well flaunt it.)

Adora sprints to the control center, finding Bow there, already in the helmsman’s chair, wearing a vest of body armor and boxers.

He pushes his mask up, and spins the hover chair around. “Rude, huh?” he says. “Right when we were all sleeping.”

“What’s going on?”

“Telescope picked up a portal engine signature,” Bow says. “Consistent with Horde ships. Two hours old, by triangulation; so nearby, relatively speaking. We’re running low-signature, but eventually we’ll have to purge the heat reservoir, and then they’ll spot us for sure.”

Adora puts on a mask and one glove, and looks at the data. She can’t parse the raw values, but it would seem, indeed, that they’ve somehow been tracked. Admittedly their getaway wasn’t all that clean.

“The strange thing is,” Bow says, “running the numbers, they didn’t even come from back there; they’ve jumped in from an adjacent system about six parsec _that_ -away —” he points.

“We’ve been bugged,” Adora says, regretting the pun the moment it left her lips. “Damara?”

“ _Yes?_ ” comes Damara’s voice from nowhere.

“Jettison the corpses in the morgue, and everything they brought aboard.”

“ _Right._ ”

“Entrapta’s already cleared Wrong Hordak, right?” Adora continues.

“I don’t know,” Bow says.

“Damara, wake her up and get her to do that. I’ll go talk to Catra.”

“ _On it._ ”

Adora throws her mask and glove on the console, and heads down into the crew quarters.

* * *

The knock on Catra’s door wakes her, drenched in cold sweat.

She doesn’t remember _any_ of it, which is unsettling, as she usually recalls her vivid nightmares with perfect clarity. Her thighs hurt.

“Just a moment!” she calls out, sits up, clutching the blanket over her.

“ _Cat, it’s me._ ”

“Okay, come in.”

Adora opens the door and steps in, closing it gingerly behind her. “Hey.”

Catra is suddenly intensely aware that her hair is a mess — she’s combed out the braids, thank god, but the shoulder-length just lends itself to becoming a knotted mess, given how fitful she’s sleeping.

Adora looks around the room and spots the tray with a bowl and cup on the desk. “Ah, you’ve eaten something?”

“Yeah.”

She had to send the first serving back; couldn’t even get herself to take a single bite. Happily she could get condensed milk served up like real food, and not have a can of it standing with a spoon in it. Just sugar and dairy; the only thing she had the stomach for. The cup was milk with honey.

“How’ve you been sleeping?”

“I keep waking every hour or two.”

Adora nods. “So long as you’re resting up.” She goes over and pulls the chair out. “Listen; remember that examination I suggested? It’s… Gotten somewhat more urgent.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve just picked up a Horde intercept craft. Somehow it’s tracked us here — we’re in the middle of interstellar nowhere, so that should be impossible — and I suspect Horde Prime has some way of tracking us.”

“Oh.”

“Damara had some corpses of some clones stashed away, so we’re jettisoning those. Entrapta’s going to check Wrong Hordak over with a fine-tooth comb, and then…”

“Me.”

“Yeah. Did he install some kind of tracker in you, or?”

“No, not that I recall; and all the surgery I had done, was—” she takes a deep breath. “Sorry, no, I; I can’t— I can’t talk about that right now.”

Adora moves from the chair to the bed. “Do you want a hug?”

Catra shakes her head. “Just give me some time, okay?”

Adora nods, gets up, and leaves.


	12. Catra, Repentant

Bow plots them a course that’ll give them some cover. Their thulite stores are big enough to take a detour, but not that much of a detour — ideally he and Damara would send them on a month-long jaunt tour of the outer galactic arms, to thoroughly throw off their pursuers.

Instead he’s limited to about ten hours worth of jaunt time.

That is about as long as it takes Entrapta to subject Wrong Hordak to a micron-scale full-body examination: she goes over every inch of him with a magnifying glass, which takes four, then puts him through a scan on maximum resolution and goes over each of the over eighty-thousand cross-section images of him.

(Glimmer gets into an argument with Damara over whether to throw Entrapta a party for pulling that feat off. Damara insists she should just go to bed instead; and in the end she does.)

“So, what?” Bow asks Adora. “Nothing?”

“Nothing. Now we wait.”

And wait they do.

* * *

Adora comes into the control center. For once, she has managed to sleep a little, and strangely, the walls seem to have been adorned with greenery-like fractal patterns while she was out. It’s strangely uplifting.

“Hey,” Bow says, turning in his chair. This time he is wearing a real shirt, thank the stars, but it’s a dark-green V-neck with a really deep cutout.

“What’s up?” Adora asks.

“They’re back; approximately the same range, three hours out. It’s actually impressive, hitting a volume of that size from within a star’s sphere of influence.”

Bow looks her up and down. “Were you accessorizing or something when I called you?”

Adora looks down herself. “No, but Glimmer’s helping me put together something to wear.”

“Oh, you too?”

She’s wearing an armored body-suit, with slightly more padding than what ‘second-skin’ implies; all white. A big utility belt hangs askew across her hips, and she’s wearing Glimmer’s choice of knee-high boots in dark leather.

Completing the outfit is a red jacket, of course; with shoulder pads, rolled-up sleeves, cropped to her waist, tastefully hanging open, and with a really spiffy collar.

“I’m thinking I might add a cloak, like the one you gave me when I lived with you at the Library.”

“Let me get you the template I use; it’s pretty close to standard-issue ranger gear. You can even get it with adaptive camouflage. I’m flattered you liked it so much, I didn’t really think about it that way at the time.”

Adora looks up at the wall screens, showing the interceptor crafts’ signatures and bearing.

“So, what are we looking at right now?”

“They’re here, in force. I think they’re burning to get on an intercept trajectory. Should I do some evasive maneuvers?”

“How long until they get here?”

“Hours.”

Adora closes her eyes. They can’t fight, they can only run; the interceptors are armed with mass-driver cannons that can take them out given a few direct hits.

“I’d suggest we pull a false surrender, but…” Adora says.

“We already played that card; not way they’ll buy it twice,” Bow completes the thought.

* * *

Adora knocks on Catra’s door.

“Cat? We kind of need to go through with that whole examination thing. Process of elimination says it’s… It’s probably you. Entrapta’s gotten some sleep, so she’s ready when you are.”

“ _Just a moment!_ ”

The door opens, and Adora gets to see Catra, who looks _worse_ than before. Dark circles around her eyes; her hair’s been cut unevenly, and she smells like puke.

“What happened?”

“What do you care?” Catra snaps back. “And what the fuck happened to you? You’re six foot ten.”

Adora puts a hand on her forehead. No temperature.

“What do I _care?!_ Catra, if you’re getting worse why didn’t you _tell_ me?!”

“Yeah? I’ve just caught a stomach virus or something, and I’ve got terrifying nightmares, why is it such a big deal?”

“Damara?” Adora asks.

“ _What can I do for you Adora?_ ”

“You’re monitoring everyone’s vitals, why didn’t you tell me?”

“ _Because she specifically requested I didn’t; I have to respect the privacy of the crew and passengers._ ”

“She actually does listen,” Catra mutters. “I thought she ratted me out to you the first time, but turns out I was wrong.”

Adora turns to Catra, and pushes her. “You, inside, in bed, now. We need to talk.”

Catra’s tail turns into a bottle cleaner, as she stumbles inside. “What the fuck, Adora?! Channelling Shadow Weaver much?”

Adora winces, and makes a fist. “Don’t you dare.”

“Or what, you’ll punch me?”

“ _Why are you like this?!_ ” Adora yells. “Why are you _doing this;_ this— everyone aboard this craft risked their _asses_ to save you? I appreciate that you don’t give a _crap_ about your health, but could you make a _minimum effort_ out of _respect?!_ ”

Catra snarls. “Screw you! You think you’re so much _better_ than me, don’t you?! That you should be my fucking medical proxy! You just throw me in a room and leave me alone for ten hours! _Ten hours!_ ”

“This is a _spacecraft!_ ” Adora yells back, “there’s always more work than available hands, and I thought you could manage to get some fucking _bed rest_ unsupervised; is it something _new_ that you want to be coddled all the time?!”

“No! In fact, I don’t want to see any of you! Not Sparkles, not Arrow Boy, and especially not Entrapta, or you, _She-Ra!_ I obviously can’t avoid your _fucking_ mom, since she _is the ship!_ But I’ll take what I can get.” She turns about and heads back into the room, hopping onto the bed and sitting down, cross-legged facing away from Adora.

“You are _not_ going to hide in here forever, nuh-uh! You don’t get to run away from this like you _always_ do.”

“Yeah, I do. Just drop me off on the nearest habitable planet. I’ll make my own way.”

Adora steps in. “So Horde Prime can just capture you again, are you out of your mind?!”

“I can take care of myself. Thanks for the rescue, but I don’t plan on sacrificing myself for anyone, ever again.” She turns, halfway, “And besides, I think I made it pretty clear not to come back, but you just love feeling like a hero, don’t you?!”

She turns back to face the corner. “I _know_ you all hate me. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

Adora strides into the room, grabs the mattress, and rips it away under Catra.

She tumbles off it, and scrabbles into the corner where the bed meet the walls, hissing.

“Yeah, I’m She-Ra, and you know what? I don’t know how to change back now! Do you think I’m _peachy_ with that?! And _no,_ as the _fucking captain_ of this craft, my responsibility is to the safety of the crew, craft, and mission; a responsibility I take _fucking seriously._ ”

Catra’s ears droop.

“I thought things would be different this time, but clearly, _nothing_ has changed!”

Adora puts a foot on the bed, and jabs a finger in Catra’s direction.

“You are submitting yourself to examination; there’s a tracker in you somewhere, and if we don’t get it out, Prime’s interceptor fleet is going to run us across the galaxy until our thulite stores run out, and then they’ll blow us up. Every minute you’re _not,_ you are putting yourself and _everyone here_ in _danger._ ”

“Or what?”

“Or what? It’s a direct order. Disobeying it is mutiny. So: your choice of the infirmary, or the airlock.”

Catra gets up, and hops off the bed. She walks past Adora, and Adora sees the trickle of a tear begin to form in the corner of her eye. “I don’t have a choice, so fine. You hate me, I can live with that,” Catra says.

Adora kicks herself. That was _way_ too far. “Catra, wait,” she says, quietly.

Catra turns to her, clearly trying to hid her distress.

Adora sits down on the mattress-less bed.

“I am really sorry I said that; I shouldn’t have. I’d never do something like that. You’re right, I sound like Shadow Weaver. I sound like when I _talk_ to Shadow Weaver.”

“Well, at least you’re self-aware,” Catra says, crossing her arms.

“I never hated you,” Adora says. “Or maybe I did, but not exclusively. Not for very long at a time; I always had a… A fool’s hope, I guess, that someday we’d no longer be enemies.” She smiles sadly.

She looks down in her hands, smile vanishing. “We had a vote. Glimmer voted we go save you, despite knowing it was probably suicide. My mom voted we didn’t, because she’s always the voice of reason here, and it _was_ dangerous.”

“Figures she’d want to return the favor. And Arrow Boy and Entrapta?”

“Bow abstained; he reasoned you’d done a lot of bad things, but ultimately it was ‘just’ war, and he’d have done tha same to you. Entrapta…”

“What about her?”

“I’m not stupid,” Adora says. “You don’t want her to look at you, because you betrayed her and you’re afraid she’ll return the favor when I turn my back.”

“Succinctly put.”

“She abstained too. I don’t think it’s my place to tell you, but she’s a Runestone Princess now, because you sent her to Beast Island, and as I understand it, she’s grateful for that, in her own way.”

Catra blinks. The logical implication is that it was Adora’s decision to go. “That’s good for her, I guess.”

Adora stands up. “Let us help you get that tracking device out, and get back on your feet so you’re not puking your guts out, or waking up all the time with nightmares. You’re never one to pass up an opportunity to exploit people’s good-will, if I recall.”

* * *

Catra walks to the infirmary, and Adora can’t help but get the feeling it’s like she’s walking her to her execution.

Inside, Entrapta has already prepared a bed and wheeled out a half-dozen machines. She’s wearing a lab coat now, hanging open to reveal the fact that she still isn’t wearing anything other than supportive underwear; she’s also not hovering, but that doesn’t do much to lend her an air of medical legitimacy

“Hello, Catra,” she says, curt. “Please, lie down and we can begin.”

“Long time no see,” Catra replies, nervously. She turns to Adora. “Adora—”

“We’re doing this, Catra,” Adora says steadily. “Afterwards, you can do whatever you want; we can drop you off somewhere, and you’ll… Never have to see any of us again.”

_Including me._

Catra looks back at Entrapta.

Adora puts a finger to her ear.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Adora says. “Entrapta, I expect nothing less than perfect professionalism from you in this. Catra… Start with an apology.”

Catra swallows her fear, and walks over to the bed, undresses, and takes a seat.

“You don’t look all that well,” Entrapta says. “Please tell me what symptoms you have.”

“I’m puking all the time,” Catra says. “I can barely keep fluids down. Uh, I can’t sleep because of really bad nightmares that I don’t remember; and —” she holds out a hand, which trembles.

“Tremors, night terrors, dehydration secondary to nausea,” Entrapta says. She grabs a flashlight and shines it in Catra’s eyes, testing pupillary light reflex.

“Entrapta, I— I’m sorry,” Catra says. “For everything I did to you.”

“Yeah,” Entrapta says. She grabs a reflex hammer. “Close your eyes.”

Catra does. “Yeah?”

Entrapta hits her on the patella, perhaps a little too hard. “Hm. Normal patellar reflex. Points to brain. And Yeah.”

She puts the hammer away. “Hordak used to say ‘the past is dead to us.’ I asked Damara if I had to forgive you if you apologized, and she said it was up to me, which was vague and didn’t help.”

“So you’re not going to just up and forgive me?”

“Is it bad if I don’t?” Entrapta asks. “I can’t really figure that out. I’m going to use the medical scanner now. Please lie down.”

“But you’re not going to like, stab me with a scalpel or something?” Catra asks, laughing nervously.

“I’m actually a board-certified physician, back home,” Entrapta says. “I am able to put my personal quarrels aside. I have to be.”

It’s a strange relief, to have someone be angry with you for the harm you caused them. Like the universe is making sense.

* * *

Adora enters the control center.

“We’ve got incoming,” Bow says. “I think they spotted us, and jumped closer. They’re within range to follow us if we jump. We’ll be taking fire within the hour.”

Adora looks up at the wall screens, taking in the data. “So what, we’re dead?”

“Unless a miracle happens, yeah.”

She turns and walks out.

* * *

Glimmer glides into the infirmary, dressed sensibly in high-waisted pants and a button down. Entrapta and Catra are waiting for her, with Entrapta floating as well, and Catra sitting in a bed with an IV drip in her arm.

“Hello Entrapta; Catra,” she greets. “Good to see you again.”

“Hi, Glimmer,” Entrapta says. “We need some sorcery help.”

“Spark— Glimmer,” Catra says. “First, uh… Sorry, about— well, everything.”

“Apology accepted,” Glimmer says immediately, surprising Catra. “Second?”

Catra nods. “Right. How good are you at mind magic and bindings?”

Glimmer frowns. “Well, I’m more of a pyromantic battle-mage, but depends on the application.”

“Remember the mind-control insects?” Catra says. “The one that went up Hordak’s nose?”

Glimmer winces. “Did he—”

Catra nods, and taps her nose. “It’s still there, hurt, but still alive, dormant. Whatever healing She-Ra gave me, protected me from it, but I get these nightmares —”

“Night terrors,” Entrapta corrects.

“— and I know that the sleeping mind is more vulnerable to magical suggestion, so Entrapta and I are hypothesizing that it’s… Prime, who’s doing it.”

Glimmer takes out her communicator and requests personal gravity again, then descends to the floor. “How do you know that the sleeping mind is susceptible? That’s pretty specific.”

“I was heavily involved with the Sorcery Division, at one point,” Catra says. “Anyway, while we could extract the bug right now, given that it’s dormant —”

Entrapta holds up a purpose built tool, that looks like a torture device.

"— that’ll probably kill it, which will significantly damage the sympathetic properties, so we need to do this while it’s in-situ. And we need to do it now, because Horde Prime is using it to track us.

A narrow window of opportunity.

“Princess Sweet Bee of Apieria has written a treatise on the sorcerous binding of Prime’s clones,” Entrapta says. “Although she’s not a practitioner of Mystacorian Rune magic, we were hoping you’d be able to adapt her work.”

Glimmer nods. “I’ve skimmed it. Just one question, does Adora know about us doing this?”

“I tried to reach her,” Entrapta says, holding up her communicator. “No answer.”

“Get me a felt-tip, and a clean surface large enough for Catra to sit on,” Glimmer says, and rolls up her sleeves.

* * *

Adora returns to her room. On her communicator, she’s put a countdown until the space battle ensues. She resumes pacing, wracking her brain for a solution.

They are stranded. However much she would like otherwise, there is no arguing with cold hard maths, especially not in space. They will be intercepted, and shot down.

“Mom, could you come in here?” Adora says.

There’s a moment, and then the door opens, revealing Damara, without her usual complement of holograms, who steps in. “Hey girl,” she says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Adora sits on the bed, hands in her lap. Damara takes the chair, spins it on one leg and sits down on it backwards. “You’re getting big,” she says. “What’s Glimmer feeding you?”

Adora snickers. “Seriously. We’re all about to die.”

“I know. I have a penchant for gallows humor.”

“Is… Is there even anything we can do?”

“You’re She-Ra. You figure it out. One of the first big things I did was to heal the entire southern Whispering Woods. Do you think I woke up that morning and thought Starlight was useful for anything other than healing the odd cut and bruise?”

Adora tilts her head. “So that _was_ you. It’s a myth now.”

“Yeah, it was… One of the first steps Light Hope made me take towards activating the Heart. The Heartblossom didn’t have a wielder; the then-girl who had been it, had been excommunicated for… For not wanting to be a girl.”

“Ah.”

“Sweet kid. Helped him get it back, and gave the temple priestesses a _stern_ talking to. Didn’t help. Later I found out he was the one who made the blight to begin with, and he strangled the priestesses who excommunicated him. He was sentenced to death afterwards.”

“Ouch. That’s not really a good motivating tale,” Adora says.

“No, sorry, I realized that as I was telling it; let’s say I healed a million acres of forest and leave it at that.”

Adora nods. “You know, ironically, now that I don’t have the Aegis, channelling starlight is a lot easier — I have to restrain myself. But the Aegis might have be able to make us a gun that could shoot down those interceptors.”

“What kind of weapons do you have now?” Damara asks.

Adora holds out a hand, and from thin air, appears a softly glowing sword, hovering an inch from her palm. “Flying swords. And the shield over there — one second.” She reaches for the shield sitting by the door, and makes a beckoning motion. Trailing twin tails of white silk, it leaps off the floor and flies into her hand.

“May I?” Damara says, and gestures to the sword. Adora gives her a go-ahead wave.

She takes it, and gives it a twirl. “Nice. Very balanced. It flies?”

“Yeah, stabs people automatically. Magically. Automagically? It’s wicked fast.”

“And the shield?”

“Projects protective energy, somehow.”

Damara inspects the sword. On the hilt, there’s a carving in modern Etherian, which she can read thanks to her integration with the craft’s translation systems. “A plus C, infinity?”

“Ad and Cat forever.”

“Cat as in Catra?”

Adora nods. “Used to be a knife, but I needed something bigger.”

“Starlight is fueled by love,” Damara says, quoting what Adora once told her. “And the shield is from that Flame Core wielder who died saving you during the battle, right?”

Adora nods. “Cometa of Candila.”

“You know, I was a spacecraft captain, but I was also trained in the old ways; the legacy of She-Ra. I spent a lot of time with Light Hope, and she had a catalogue of the collected wisdoms of all the previous incarnations. I guess if you live long enough to grow old as She-Ra, you start thinking about your successor.”

“I had a vision, a few dreams, and then a big one when She-Ra came back,” Adora says, “about those who came before us. Well, you were in it too. I think ‘She-Ra’ is actually just a bastardization of the name of the first incarnation, _Sheherazade._ ”

“Sounds… Not implausible,” Damara says. “In fact, I was about to suggest you try to meditate on it, seek inspiration from whatever powers it is that makes us She-Ra. I had luck with that once or twice when I was in dire straits — in fact I’ll accredit the whole world-prison plan to a meditation session I made time for that morning.”

“All right,” Adora says, pulling her legs up under her. “I’ll give it a try.”

“You know how?”

She nods. “Perfuma taught me.”

“I’ll give you some privacy then,” Damara says, and has the courtesy to actually walk out the door before dematerializing her avatar.

* * *

A chime from her communicator alerts her to the impending battle, and Adora opens her eyes.

She rises from the bed, holds out a hand, and the shield leaps to it. “Stella Nova, the Veil,” she names it. The bronzed star motif on the face of it shimmers.

She holds out the other, and manifests a sword. “Parabell, the Prism.”

It’s perfectly obvious what she’s been doing wrong: She is She-Ra, and She-Ra isn’t a soldier, or a spacecraft captain. She-Ra is a myth; a legend; a larger-than-life wielder of _starlight_ and protector of _a planet._

Sheathing the sword in the shield, she lets go of both, and her newly named instruments obediently glide off to the side, within easy each.

Opening the door to her room, she finds a gift on a hover tray; a dark green cloak, and…

She pics it up. It’s a crown, of sorts. Bulky and study, an article of armor, rather than accessory; protecting the forehead, cheeks and nose. It reminds her of that thing Catra wore, come to think of it; but the nose guard has the shape of an owl’s beak.

_Glory._

She puts it on; it fits perfectly. She slings the cloak around her shoulders and buttons it so it hangs like a cape.

With long, powerful strides, she heads to the rear EVA airlock, putting her earbud in. “Bow?”

“ _Yes captain?_ ”

“I’m about to go take care of our little interceptor problem.”

“ _How?_ ”

She steps into the airlock. A warning light goes off, indicating that she’s about to exit into hard vacuum without a spacesuit on.

Mentally, she calls on the veil, and a soft glowing membrane forms around her, head to toe.

“Override,” she says.

The fans begin running, and the noises in the airlock muffle until she can only hear through the inch or so of air around her. The doors open and the remaining air escapes in a rush of wind.

Adora kicks off and _wills_ herself to move, gliding out of the airlock, and re-orienting herself. She’s never been on a spacewalk before, and this one is out of the ordinary to boot.

“ _Adora what’s going on?_ ” Bow asks.

“I’m spacewalking,” Adora says. “Without a suit.”

There’s a pause. “ _What?!_ ”

Adora glides down to the hull, and her feet make contact. She begins walking quite normally across the hull of the Swift Wind, a little impossible stroll until she reaches the nose.

“ _I can see you out there; what’s going on?_ ”

She turns back to where she’s pretty sure the view from the control center is looking from. She waves. “Get Damara to help me aim,” Adora says.

“ _Novel,_ ” Damara says in her ear. “ _I see you found something._ ”

Adora reaches over and pulls the sword out of the shield. In her hand, the hilt extends until it is a ten twenty foot long spear. She juggles it to an overhand grip.

“Any idea when they’ll be jumping in?” Adora asks. “And how many?”

“ _Any moment now. At least a dozen_ ”

By her command, nineteen additional spears spring into existence behind her.

And then they wait, with bated breath.

* * *

Catra sits down, with help from Glimmer, in the center of the elaborate diagram.

Watching Glimmer draw it was mesmerizing; she did the entire thing free-hand, working with mechanical precision, drawing perfect circles and lines without either compass of straightedge. The true mark of a Rune Sorcerer is not their grasp of magic, but their grasp of calligraphy.

Attached to Catra are several electrodes and measurement apparatuses, and Entrapta stands by to the side, ready to administer emergency aid ranging from anticonvulsants to CPR.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Glimmer asks.

“Let’s get this over with,” Catra says.

“Catra, I need you to consent. We’re about to do dark magic here. It’ll cost you.”

Catra nods. “I’m prepared.”

“Okay, I’m going to induce you.” Glimmer kneels in front of Catra. “I need you to relax.”

“Yeah, Entrapta took care of that,” Catra says and laughs weakly. There’s morphine in her drip; just enough to take the edge off everything.

Glimmer holds up a hand. “Push against my palm.”

Catra puts her palm against Glimmer’s, and applies pressure.

“Close your eyes, think of nothing.”

Glimmer waits for about thirty seconds, until boredom has set in, and then suddenly draws her hand away, leaving Catra to push forwards into nothingness. The surprise is a window of opportunity which Glimmer seizes — she puts her free hand over Catra’s eyes, then grabs the back of her head with the other. “ _Down you go,_ ” she whispers into Catra’s ear.

And Catra slumps over in Glimmer’s lap. Glimmer gives Entrapta the sign to begin recording video.

“Catra, sit up for me.”

Catra languidly pushes herself up to sitting.

“What now?” Entrapta asks.

“Regression,” Glimmer says. “Catra, I need you to be back on the Velvet Glove, under Prime’s control, can you do that for me?”

Catra nods. “Glory be to Horde Prime,” she mutters.

“ _I hereby sacrifice my memory of this seance, so that I might let others deeply dream,_ ” Glimmer chants. She draws a rune in the air, then slowly puts her hand through it and touches her middle finger to Catra’s forehead. “Now, I need you to see Horde Prime’s thoughts.”

Catra shudders. “I… I feel him,” she says. “He’s everywhere.”

“Okay. Let’s start with an easy one, How are his emotions?”

“He’s… Angry.”

“Empathic link confirmed,” Glimmer notes. “Why?”

“The infection is… Persistent. Has to be excised with prejudice, like a cancer. It’s turning chronic, impossible to contain, only treat.”

“Telepathic link confirmed. What’s the infection?” Glimmer asks.

“The virus I planted,” Entrapta supplies.

Glimmer nods. “What is he doing?”

“He’s… Travelling to the Sola system, with another two voids of ships. He’ll have the whole system under control in no time, no-one will get in or out. Especially not She-Ra… He’s going to begin cleansing it.”

“What is he planning?”

“To take the Heart of Etheria. Claim it as his own; he’ll figure out how it works, _exactly_ how it works, and then bend it to his will. He’s hoping for the best and is prepared to accept the worst.”

That concludes the standard questions.

“Does he know where Hordak is?”

“He’s acting as personal aide to Prime himself. He’s hoping Entrapta wants to come rescue him, but knows it is highly unlikely.”

“What is ‘cleansing’ really?”

“Sanitizing-wasps. The mind-control insects; that’s what they’re called. He’ll sanitize the entire population, united under his rule. Then there will be no resistance left. He’s afraid the virus might get to his hive engines, he safeguards them zealously.”

Catra jerks her head to the side. “He’s seen me; bring me out, please! Bring me—” she falls over to the side, in a seizure.

“Seizing!” Entrapta yelps, and runs into the circle.

Glimmer blinks. “Did we get something?” she asks. “What’s with her?”

“She said he saw her!” Entrapta says. The IV has been yanked from Catra’s arm. “Help me hold her arm!”

Glimmer lunges for the flailing limb and with the combined strength of her and Entrapta, aided by a single tentacle arm, Entrapta manages to lay an injection with her hair. A potent anticonvulsant.

* * *

Glimmer paces back and forth in the infirmary. She’s reviewed the footage. Memory sacrifice is safe, if done correctly; but still the rebound of the spell failing seems to have hit Catra, rather than her.

The brain bug lies dead, grilled medium rare, in a glass dish in the next room. The smell of burnt shellfish is pervasive, despite the aggressive ventilation in the room.

“How is she?” Glimmer asks.

“Stable, same as when you asked two minutes ago. Her brain-waves are normal, Delta rhythm, indicating dreamless sleep.”

Glimmer paces back and forth, then heads over to the bed. “You can’t tell if she’s suffered permanent injury as she is now, right?”

“Right,” Entrapta concurs.

“But if she’s awake you can examine her.”

“Right.”

“And you’re not giving her something to wake her up because…”

“She’s already on a cocktail of drugs.”

“Why didn’t you just say so.”

Glimmer gestures a rune, and casts a waking spell.

Catra’s eyes slowly open. “Hey,” she says. “Did it work?”

“It did,” Glimmer says. “You did well.”

“You’ve had a major seizure,” Entrapta adds. “I need to do a neurological examination.”

Catra looks down herself, lying in the bed. “I can give you one for free, doc,” she says. “I can’t move my tail.”

* * *

A brain scan reveals pervasive micro-lesions in her white matter. Consulting the medical databases, it’s a wonder Catra’s not a vegetable.

Entrapta goes off to catch up on sleep, while Glimmer pushes Catra down the hall in a hoverchair; her balance and coordination is impacted — controlling it, even with an intensionality-aided joystick prooved too difficult. At least she can still talk.

“Catra,” Glimmer says. “I don’t think Adora is going to be happy to hear what we did.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Catra says. “It was my decision. And we got good intel.”

“Yeah, but you— you could be permanently hurt from this.”

Catra shakes her head. “First, it’s not even the first time I’m being carted around because I can’t walk; second, Adora _literally_ cured me of gunshot-to-the-head disease, so I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

They reach the hallway with the bedrooms. Catra holds up a trembling hand, the left one. The white one. “I know Entrapta said so, but… I don’t really want to just go lie down; if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, okay,” Glimmer says.

“You’ve been really helpful, Sp— Glimmer.”

“Thanks. You can call me Sparkles if you want.”

Catra nods. “Can… Can you help me with something else?”

Glimmer steps to the side of the wheelchair so they can have a proper conversation.

Catra holds up her left hand. “It’s silly, and vain, but I can’t stand this color. It— It reminds—”

“Reminds you of him. Yeah…” Glimmer steps back and looks Catra up and down. “I think you need a makeover. Let’s see if Entrapta can push her nap another ten minutes and give you a haircut while I find some fur dye.”

* * *

A half hour later the two of them roll into the control center, and Catra feels a little better. Looking good can’t fix her neurological damage, her nausea, or her generally being a useless, weak piece of gutter trash, but it does take the edge off.

Glimmer has found her a template pattern for a padded body-suit that hides her malnutrition, and implies some curves she hasn’t had since before… Well… It’s in a dark red-brown. Entrapta has cut her hair shorter than she’s ever had it, but it accentuates her face nicely.

And now, of course, she can bear to look at her left hand again.

Bow is standing in the middle of the room, looking agitated; Damara is floating off to the side, corporeal. Both are looking out at the emptiness of space, where on the nose of the ship, stands She-Ra.

“We’ve got contact,” Damara says.

“ _I see it, I think._ ”

Holding one of the oversized javelins, she draws back, takes a run-up, and throws. Upon leaving her hand, the spear becomes a streak of light.

“Impact in thirty seconds; more incoming, keep up your fire.”

Adora, working with Damara’s directions and a cloud of purple holographic aiming reticles laid out in the space in front of her, launches javelin after javelin.

“ _That’s all of them for now,_ ” she says.

“Now we wait to confirm impacts; in the mean time, we need to be on the lookout for return fire. We _cannot_ afford to take any hits.”

Adora grabs her shield and throws it out in the general direction she first threw her javelins.

From it blooms a broad billowing veil, reaching out to cover basically the front of the entire ship.

One minute later, part of the veil instantly flickers uncomfortably close to the Swift Wind’s hull; a deep furrow in the defense, caused by the impact of a one pound slug moving at half the speed of light.

Then it happens again, and again, and then it becomes a barrage, peppering the gossamer-thin silk-like force field, which buckles and billows under the onslaught, but holds. Not a single slug hits the hull.

“ _We’re holding._ ”

Damara throws up a couple of telescope feeds on the wall screens, and in glorious detail, they get to see how the first is pierced by a beam of light and promptly explodes. Then the second. Then the third. The javelins methodically tearing through the oblong box-shaped interceptor crafts, in axial direction, destroying their spinal infrastructure.

The last of them is reduced to a slowly expanding debris field, and the bombardment persists while the last projectiles in flight make it to target.

“Clear. I repeat, we’re in the clear,” Damara says.

Bow gives a celebratory whoop. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, his smile and relief easily heard in his voice. “Get inside, Adora.”

Adora turns and seemingly walks across the wall screens, accompanied by her sword and shield, one sheathed in the other, gliding obediently behind her. She causally waves to them inside.

Happy. Confident. Radiant. Powerful. Larger-than-life. _Resplendent._

She’s casually braving the lethal vacuum of space without a space suit, having just taken down a squadron of enemy spacecraft with throwing spears, and weathered a storm of relativistic cannon fire with a silk sheet.

It’s not a stretch to call her a goddess.

Catra is… Unsure how to feel about that. Intimidated. Maybe even a little aroused. It’s not something that mixes well with her current malaise in any case.


	13. We Lived, What's Next?

Adora strides triumphantly into the control center, which is bathed in the dimmed light show of the ongoing jaunt, visible on the wall screens.

“— I mean, you have no idea how big a relief it is,” she hears Bow says.

“Catra,” Adora says, pleasantly surprised. “Did you see me out—”

She stops.

“Why is Glimmer pushing you around on a hoverchair?”

“We’ve got some good news and some bad news,” Catra says. “You should all hear it.”

“Adora, you should sit down for this one,” Glimmer says.

Adora is just about to say something stern, but then—

“First, though,” Bow says. “Adora and I would like to apologize for not telling you that we were all about to get blown to bits by Horde interceptors, right?”

She looks at him. “Right. Sorry. In retrospect that was less than stellar decision making.”

“You neglected to tell us we were about to die in a way there was no way to avert?” Catra asks. “That’s nothing to apologize for. We’d have spent the time worrying instead of getting stuff done.”

“I don’t agree with that sentiment,” Glimmer says. “Just so everyone knows. Please tell me things so I can worry endlessly, because now I just feel guilty that you, Bow, and Damara were handling this on your own.”

“Right. Again, I apologize,” Adora says. “Now, what have you two been up to?”

“Three; Entrapta was with us,” Catra says. “Just a preface: I take full responsibility.”

* * *

Adora takes it… Better than Catra had hoped. The giant woman’s level stare is nigh unbearable, and she feels very small.

“How’s Entrapta?” Adora asks.

“In a word?” Glimmer says. “Angry. Out of all of us here, she’s a contender for the top spot in the personal-vendetta-against-Horde-Prime department.”

Then, without a word, Adora rises from the captain’s chair, descends from the podium, and walks up to Catra, who suppresses a flinch.

Gently, Adora’s hand — big and strong — comes to rest on Catra’s forehead, and a wave of starlight rolls over her.

The tingling sensations, the weakness, and the nausea goes away instantly.

“I’m sorry I was incommunicado. You did the right thing in gathering intelligence when you had the opportunity, and even though you didn’t learn his weakness; that’s all still valuable stuff…”

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Catra says.

Adora kneels down to put her at eye-level with Catra. “Don’t do something like this again, okay? Take care of yourself. Please; not for my sake, just… Having you here is enough, you don’t have to help out; you don’t have to fight. You see? I’m strong enough now.”

“I do, though,” Catra says. “Horde Prime, he… I can’t describe what it’s like. I was still _me,_ Adora. I was sane, I could think, but somehow my entire purpose in life, that was _his_ purpose for me. I can’t exist in the same universe as him; I just can’t. He needs to go down, or I’m never going to get a good night’s rest, ever again.”

Adora nods. “I know exactly what that’s like.”

“You do?”

“Northern Reach.”

Catra’s ears droop, and she looks away. “Sorry,” she says in a very small voice.

Adora stands, and offers Catra a hand. Catra takes it, and is almost lifted bodily out of the chair. “Glimmer,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s for dinner?”

* * *

Fish and chips, as it turns out. And two-dozen different beverage and drink options on tap.

Adora pulls up a hover chair, to the end of the table, since the benches don’t agree with her growth spurt. Glimmer and Hordak take the side of the table facing the kitchen. When Catra freezes, Bow pats the bench next to him in invitation.

She sits. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“And, sorry.”

“What for?”

“Just, you know… The whole enemies thing.”

“Oh yeah, that.” He holds out a hand for her to shake.

She takes it.

“No sense in holding a grudge or seeking out revenge; I went down that street once, and it almost destroyed me. Glad you’re on our side now.”

“Can I ask what unlucky soul happened to cross you?”

Bow smiles. “The lead researcher back when we you abducted me and Glimmer. And the two cronies that beat me.”

Catra looks away. “Sorry,” she repeats.

“No, _I_ am sorry. You’re contrite enough as is; I really shouldn’t rub things like that in your face.”

Damara materializes to join them, and does eat — for pleasure — but remains hovering, in a blatant display of bad table manners. (And frankly, who cares?) Entrapta is asleep, and Glimmer has set a portion aside from her, of small nuggets of deep-fried fillet, and a batch of halved fries.

Glimmer and Wrong Hordak carry in trays of napkin-lined baskets full of warm food, straight from the fryer. Wrong Hordak diligently sets the table, wearing an apron that says ‘kiss the cook.’

Catra, initially skeptical, bites down into crunchy, fresh, heavenly goodness of warm white piscine flesh, and almost — almost — fells a tear of joy.

“Is it good?” Bow asks, jokingly.

Catra nods and wipes her eye.

“Are… Are you okay, Catra?” Adora asks, from the other side of the table.

Catra nods, chews, swallows, and clears her throat. “Sparkles, how did you make these?”

“Egg, salt, pepper, breadcrumbs, deep fryer?” Glimmer suggests.

“How did you get them so crunchy?” Catra breaks off a piece for emphasis — which falls a bit flat since they aren’t _crisp._

“Oh, yeah, that’s — see the fabricator only has patterns for base foodstuffs. All the fries are from identical copies of the same potato, for instance; the fillet is actually almost an extrusion, I think? It comes out way longer than any fish is.” Glimmer stabs her fillet with her fork, and holds it up. “The breadcrumbs; I used a recipe on hand, where instead of baking bread in the oven and breaking that down for crumb, one bakes the bread using electricity. It was an excuse to mess around with some lightning spells I’ve been developing, too.”

Adora giggles. “I think I should just go ahead and officially make you chief cook, laundry officer, and what — interior decorator? Damara?”

“Chief Stewardess, is the usual title,” Damara says.

“I’ll take it if there’s a pay raise,” Glimmer jokes back. “Sorcery hasn’t really been going my way as of late; all my battle sorcery is good for seems to be breadcrumbs.”

Adora laughs, and inhales breadcrumbs, leading to a coughing fit. “All right, Bow you’re officially the pilot, astrogator, and chief gunner.”

Bow salutes, with a grin.

Adora goes around he table. “Catra, analyst and intelligence officer, Wrong Hordak, you’re the steward’s assistant; that leaves Entrapta, head physician and engineer, and Damara, our quartermaster and security.”

“I’ll see about procuring some insignias, captain,” Damara says dryly. She manages to hold the act for about a second, before snickering.

“Seriously, we’re actually a pretty well-functioning crew,” Bow points out, “which is to say everything I know about crew composition is things Sea Hawk has told me.”

Catra stands picks up her plate. “Thanks for the food; I— I’m tired, I think I’ll go eat in my room, then go to bed.”

Bow, Glimmer, and Adora share a quick round of looks, then Adora brushes off her hands, wipes them tactlessly in her bodysuit, and heads after her.

* * *

“Catra, is everything all-right?”

Catra stops, halfway down the hall, out to the crew dorms. “Yeah, I— I’m okay,” she says without turning around.

“You don’t sound okay.”

Adora jogs to her side, and Catra looks up, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Catra says, frustrated. “ _I don’t know,_ ” she repeats in a whisper.

Adora takes the plate from her and sets it on the floor; then pulls Catra into a hug — the height difference makes it a little awkward; they used to be the same height, once.

“You guys are too fucking nice to me,” she says eventually. “I don’t deserve—”

“Hush,” Adora says.

“Entrapta’s the only one with the good sense to hold me accountable for all the horrible shit I’ve done to you.”

“I said shut up, Catra,” Adora repeats. “You can gripe about culpability when the war is over; and I’ll throw you in jail then if you really want me to.”

Catra giggles. “You’re such an idiot.”

“At least I know it.”

* * *

They break out the hard drinks, and Damara puts on some music which nobody but her and Adora understands the lyrics for. They move some of the tables out of the way to provide a small dance floor.

Bow calls a toast to She-Ra, for saving them all.

Glimmer calls a toast to Catra, for saving her, and for reading Horde Prime’s mind.

Entrapta joins them, fully dressed for once, apparently ravenously hungry, and grateful for what’s on offer, even though she’d settle for the standard nutritionally complete MRE rations. Wrong Hordak joins her at her table, out of some kind of politesse.

Glimmer pulls Bow onto the dance floor.

“I wonder if I can even get drunk anymore,” Adora says, looking into her empty glass, sitting on the table, feet on the bench, next to Catra.

“Maybe try drinking it neat?” Catra shoots back. She eyes her own glass of hard lemonade. “I’m not sure I should be drinking.”

“I’ll chaperone you,” Damara says. She appears on the other side of the table, sitting with a tumbler already in her hand. Adora turns to face her. She continues: “By my psychological profile of you, you don’t appear to have the pathology of a habitual drinking problem.”

“And that means?” Catra asks.

“You drink because sometimes life is hard, and when it isn’t, you don’t.”

Catra knocks back her drink in one draught. “Then I definitely need a refill.”

Adora waves over Emily, the household drone, and hands off their glasses.

“I can really see you two grew up together,” Damara says. “Meeting you, Catra, it explains a lot about my daughter.”

“In a good or bad way?”

Damara shrugs. “Listen; back in my time, we had shitheads with kids who should have never had them, then as well. Even among my own crew, I had a few birds flown fledgeling from broken nests. I know at least some of the damage you two suffered at the hands of that woman, Shadow Weaver.”

Adora and Catra exchange glances.

“I want to remind you, as I have done others, that she has no power over you anymore. No more power than you give her. And by giving her power, I mean _also_ going against her ideals, just for the sake of spite. Anytime she factors in your lives, any time her opinion matters to you, that is a potential handhold that she will use. The best I’ve ever seen someone do, was to _ignore_ the parent who hurt them. Cut ties. Flee, and never think of them ever again.”

Emily returns with another hard lemonade for Catra, and a dark spirit, served straight up, for Adora.

“If you’re going to talk me up like that, I need a smoke,” Catra says.

“No smoking on the Swift Wind,” Damara says with a smile. “Quartermaster’s rules. Besides, it’s bad for you. Much worse than drinking.”

“What do you care? You’re not my mom,” Catra shoots back.

“Don’t make me adopt you, orphan girl!” Damara says, sternly.

Adora laughs.

Catra likes that.

* * *

“Adora, this whole new per— permanent She-Ra thing? You’re so fucking sexy,” Glimmer slurs.

“Thanks,” Adora says, to the drunk woman in her arms.

“Sometimes, I lie awake and think about what we could have been if I wasn’t such a fucking idiot. You’re the perfect girlfriend, you know that? I am missing _out!_ ”

“I’m very flattered.”

Adora looks at Bow, walking along beside her. He’s sloshed too, but handles it better; in part due to his enhancements. He’s amused by Glimmer’s earnestness, but not laughing.

“Adora, you are going to make Catra a very happy cat lady one day.”

“I’m sure.”

“I mean it; you two were _made_ for each other.”

“Yeah, I’m going to take that with a grain of salt,” Adora replies.

They reach Glimmer’s room, and the door slides away.

“Jus’ lemme down,” Glimmer says.

Adora does, and Glimmer flaps her wings for balance. “One moment, then I’ll be all better.” Then she heads directly to the bathroom and grabs her toothbrush and proceeds to gag herself and vomit into the sink.

“Classy,” Adora says.

“She’ll be fine,” Bow says. “She does that. Glimmer?”

“Yeah, sweetie?” Glimmer replies.

“Go to bed, yeah?”

“What, all alone?”

“I mean it, Glimmer.”

She gives him a thumbs-up, and blows a kiss. Bow closes the door.

“Damara will keep an eye on her,” Adora says.

They head back up the hallway, some, to where Bow and Adora have picked out their rooms.

“Can I ask what’s going on between you two?” Adora asks.

Bow shrugs. “We’re just trying to remember what it’s like to be friends again.”

“By slow dancing for thirty minutes, and then sitting in your lap, flirting with you for the entire night?”

“I dunno,” he says.

“Do you love her?”

“Yeah; I think I might.”

Adora stops. “Then what the fuck are you walking back to your own room for?”

Bow rubs his neck. “She’s drunk; I don’t wanna impose.”

“She likes to cuddle,” Adora says. “I know that much. And even an idiot like me knows she adores you.”

Bow looks at her. “Thanks, Captain.” Then he turns and heads back towards Glimmer’s room.

“No problem, Pilot.”

* * *

Catra jack-knifes awake, bathed in cold sweat, sick to her stomach, and for a moment has horrible deja-vu. Then she realizes the nausea is because she’s still drunk, and regrets for a moment not taking the opportunity to puke before going to bed.

The nightmare, she remembers this time. A familiar one, involving Shadow Weaver, with a new twist involving Horde Prime.

Her bed, sized for a single person though it is, feels too big.

She gets up, and heads into the hallway, barefoot, wearing a hideous ‘standard-issue sleeping onesie’ which is _very_ toasty and comfortable — making up for what it lacks in aesthetics.

Four rooms down the hall, is Adora’s room.

She stops in front of the door. “Damara?”

“ _Yes?_ ”

“Can you open for me?”

“ _That’d be a breach of privacy._ ”

Catra blushes. “Please? I swear, I’m just going to sleep in the foot-end of her bed; that’s is something we used to do, even in boot camp.”

“ _Okay then._ ”

The door noiselessly slides away, and Catra enters quietly on soft foot pads.

There, on the bed, is Adora, wrapped up in a blanket, sleeping soundly. Her legs are tucked up, leaving space for Catra.

Catra crawls in, curls up like she hasn’t been able to from the time she had her spinal implant, until it was destroyed ereyesterday.

She drifts off quickly, into deep and restful sleep. And Adora doesn’t try to fight her blanket that night.

* * *

The morning after a bacchanal is as always, unpleasant. And more so, it is a work day.

Adora wakes, head pounding, gingerly crawls out of bed to avoid disturbing Catra, and heads into the bathroom to drink from the faucet with cupped hands.

She looks back at her bed, only then realizing that indeed, Catra is right there.

It brings a smile to her face. She grabs her communicator on the desk, and exits into the hallway.

“Mom?” she asks.

Damara materializes in front of her. “Hey girl.”

“Do you know why Catra’s sleeping in the foot-end of my bed?”

“No,” Damara lies. “You look hung over.”

Adora nods.

“I seem to remember telling you to not down; what, two bottles of distilled spirits?”

Adora nods.

The lights in the hallway turn up, and Adora has to shield her eyes.

“Do— do you have some kind of advanced First-Ones medicine that cures hangovers?”

“Aspirin.”

“Oh.”

“You could also try magical healing, but the way I see it, a hangover is the punishment one receives for overindulging in drink. Your body reminding you that you your debauchery has to have limits.”

“Right. Thanks for the moral lesson, mom.”

She returns to her room, and Catra stirs, with a little purring noise. She sits. “Hey Adora,” she murmurs.

“You know what the First-Ones had for hangover cures?” Adora asks.

Catra rubs her temple. “Please tell me it works _really_ well.”

“Aspirin, leftover fries, and ice water.”

“But that’s not— yeah okay.”

They head to the mess together, and is joined there by Bow dragging a weightless floating Glimmer by the hand.

Entrapta has been abstinent on principle, Wrong Hordak had one (1) drink and is physically about the size of She-Ra, and Damara’s drunkenness is at the flip of a switch.

Adora, Catra, Glimmer, and Bow, are all variously attempting to medicate their electrolyte imbalance and dull the pain of toxic metabolic breakdown of alcohol coursing through their bloodstreams. Aspirin, ice water, and salt. Entrapta helpfully adds bananas to the table; for potassium.

“So, who wants to have a strategy meeting?” Damara asks.

There’s a round of groans.

“I thought so. But unfortunately, it is a matter of urgency. We’re about to drop out of jaunt, in our local stellar neighborhood.”

“Right,” Adora says. “Yeah, the whole Horde Prime’s blockade of our home system.”

She sets down the glass of ice water she’s holding against her forehead. “Let me just try something—” she calls on starlight, and _blessedly_ it turns out that a hangover is no matter to cure. Pain relief is instant.

“Great! It does!” She holds out a hand for Catra, and Catra takes it, gets a wave of starlight, and perks up visibly.

Next, Bow takes her hand, glows briefly, and then feels much better.

“Oh please, relieve me of this torture,” Glimmer says. She reaches over to Adora with a wingtip.

“Don’t make a habit of getting this drunk, and then using She-Ra’s magical healing to get out of the hangover,” Damara says.

“Yes mom,” Adora says, rolling her eyes. “So; what do we do? The resistance needs us.”

“What did you do last time?” Catra asks. “To escape Horde Prime’s ships, I mean.”

“I flew us through to chromosphere of Sola, for cover,” Bow says, “but that was only to get an escape vector where his interceptors couldn’t get on top of us in time to, well, intercept. It will not work to get an approach vector to Etheria.”

“What’s a chromosphere?”

“They flew so close to Sola, he had to dodge jets of plasma moving at hundreds of miles per second for three pants-shittingly tense hours,” Glimmer says. “Like a real _hero._ ”

Bow blushes, and Glimmer just looks at him, with unabashed adoration.

“Wait, did these two—?” Catra begins, looking at Adora, who smiles knowingly.

“ _Moving on!_ ” Bow says. “Any other bright ideas?”

“We could build a main gun for the Swift Wind?” Entrapta suggests. “We’d need to find permanent shelter, set up large-scale fabricator production and found a light asteroid mining operation for additional materials. It should take no more than perhaps a year to upgrade the Swift Wind to a battlecraft more than capable of making it to Etheria unharmed.”

“I’m not liking the time table on that,” Adora says. “Let’s keep it as a plan B, since it is actually actionable and could work.”

Entrapta beams.

“We could use magic,” Glimmer suggest. “I mean, I’m kind of cut off from Etheria, and you guys didn’t think to bring me any spellbooks, so I’d have to rediscover most of the principles on my own, but Horde Prime’s force has a well-documented weakness to magic; which I think stems from their lack of adoption _of_ magic, in their tech. First-Ones technology is like, half magic.”

“What’s the time frame on that?” Adora asks.

“Difficult to say. Months, at least.”

“We could potentially open long distance communications,” Entrapta says, “but that hinges on either using the ansible network which would entail entering Horde-controlled space, or using a First-Ones’ beacon which would require that someone has built on back on Etheria. Then someone could scan all the spellbooks Glimmer needs and send them here.”

“We should check whether that is the case,” Adora says. “Let’s call that our plan A for now. It’d also let us tell everyone we made it; that’d be a boost for morale.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t glean his weakness when you three did that whole super-dangerous-almost-killed-Catra dark-magic-ritual mind-trick on Horde Prime without authorization,” Bow says.

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” Catra bites back.

“He might not even know himself,” Adora says. “He told me he has deliberately forgotten where he came from, so that his enemies can never know.”

“Correct!” Wrong Hordak says. “Horde Prime’s weakness is never to be discussed, it is strict taboo. His failures are merely classified for propaganda purposes.”

He sits there, smiling, in a pink blouse. There’s a plastic flower in his hair.

“So, what is his weakness?”

“I’m sorry, but I— I shouldn’t have said anything,” Wrong Hordak says, getting agitated.

Entrapta puts a gloved hand on his. “It’s okay.”

“How about this,” Damara says, “Wrong Hordak, you don’t have to answer any questions you don’t feel comfortable answering, and we promise we won’t pry if you say stop.”

“All right,” Wrong Hordak says. “Those terms are agreeable to Prime, I would think.”

Adora leans over to Glimmer. “ _Are you sure you’re turning him over to our side?_ ” she says quietly.

“ _It’s a process. The clones are_ deeply _indoctrinated. This is him being helpful._ ”

“All right, so, no talking of his weaknesses,” Bow says. “What about his failures?”

“Ah, but you do not have clearance,” Wrong Hordak says.

“But we’re also not the target audience of his propaganda,” Adora points out. “It’s okay; we won’t tell anyone. We promise.”

Wrong Hordak bites his lips. “I can neither confirm or deny that anything of note happened on a planet that is most definitely not called Krytis.”

Glimmer smiles, knowingly.

Adora leans over to her. “ _That’s some impressive double-speak. Your work?_ ”

She nods with the pride of a teacher.

“Krytis,” Damara says.

“That rings a bell,” Bow notes.

“It does,” Damara agrees and vanishes.

“Where?” Adora asks.

“Nowhere!” Wrong Hordak blurts out. “There is no such place! Doesn’t even exist! And even if you find it on the star map, I assure you it’s a cartographic plagiarism trap!”

“You’re doing great,” Entrapta says, patting him on the shoulder.

“It’s in the histories,” Bow says. “I do leisure reading at the helm sometimes; it’s in the local stellar neighborhood of Etheria.”

“What’s so special about it?” Catra asks.

“There was a global environmental catastrophe before the First-Ones colonized it; much of the populace were relocated off-world as diaspora. They managed to undo it, but by then Krytisians were already spread throughout the empire,” Bow explains.

“Ridiculous! Demonstrably false!” Wrong Hordak says.

“I get the sense we should really go there,” Adora says, looking at Wrong Hordak. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yes, ‘peachy,’ I am just fine,” he replies. “Thank you for asking, sister Adora.”

Damara reappears. “I knew why that was so familiar. Krytis was a candidate for the Heart programme before Etheria was discovered. It also happens to be the home planet of… Well, your race, Catra. Feliforms.”

Catra sits for a beat. “What?”

Bow almost jumps up. “That makes so much sense! The seclusive policies of the Magicat empire, the diasporic feliform peoples all over Etheria! I swear, historians have argued _forever_ over why the Magicat Empire seemed to have diasporic culture before it was even founded.”

“Yeah,” Damara says. “We— that is to say, the First-Ones did that. A lot. Fracture local communities and forcibly relocate them, turning them into imperial citizens first, and whatever they used to be second.”

“Are all the races on Etheria like that?” Adora asks.

“Some. Angels —” she indicates to Glimmer “— are natives; there also used to be a second race of horned, tailed, and winged humanoids, who were wiped out in the colonization wars. Razorbacks are from somewhere else too.”

“Scheherazade,” Adora says. “The first She-Ra was one of those. A demon. Devil. Whatever.”

“Brigadier General Cobalt is a razorback,” Catra points out.

“He got promoted?” Adora asks.

She nods.

Damara nods. “However, some peoples, like Orcs, Elves, Sea Elves, Trolls, Scorpioni, Bugfolk, Caniforms, Minotaurs, Centaurs, those were all created in our breeding programmes.”

“I head about that from Razz,” Adora says, “that I don’t have a father. Why did they do that?”

“Oh that’s simple, it was to try to re-create a ruler as great as King Grayskull,” Damara says.

“Did they ever succeed?” Bow asks.

“Fat lot of good it did them, even if they did,” Catra says. “Horde Prime crushed them.”

Damara nods. “I don’t know, and yeah, I’d like to know how exactly he did that, but I suspect the answer is ‘superior numbers’ or some variation thereof.”

“Okay, so to summarize,” Glimmer says. “Something happened on Krytis, which Horde Prime _really_ doesn’t want anyone to know about. We should go there just because it’ll annoy him, honestly. And I bet we can still do the whole plan A and plan B while we’re there, anyway.”

They all look at Adora.

“All right. Bow, plot a course for Krytis.”

* * *

Adora bumps into Catra down in fabrication. “Hi.”

“Hey Adora.”

Adora snickers. “Used to be, every time you said that a chill would run down my spine, because I knew you had some new horrific thing planned.”

Catra looks away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Adora says. “You know I’m glad just to have you with us. What were you up to with the fabricator?”

Catra holds up the thing she had made. A reproduction of a Magicat warrior forehead protector. A replacement for the one Prime confiscated.

“Oh, that thing.” Adora taps her own. “Glimmer made this for me, based on yours.”

Catra nods. “I noticed the resemblance. Shadow Weaver gave it to me for some inscrutable reason.”

Adora nods. “And yet you kept it.”

Catra nods.

Neither of them say anything for a beat.

“Why are you here?” Catra asks.

“Need a new bodysuit.” She holds out an arm, and the hem of the sleeve hikes up over her wrist. “I’m still growing.”

“You gotta stop some day, or you’ll start bumping your head on all the doors,” Catra says.

Adora giggles.

Catra smiles.


	14. Krytis, Bathed In Twilight

The jaunt to Krytis is mere hours, rather than days. Bow and Damara bring them into the system cautiously, emerging into real space at regular intervals to scan the entire sky for activity with the telescope. The exact capabilities of Horde interceptors might be classified, but scouring the ansible networks reveals that Prime considers work on signature masking a technological dead end.

In space, if you’re hotter than liquid helium, any idiot with an cheap infrared telescope can see you a literal million miles away. The Swift Wind does have internal heat sinks, but such a system can’t cool her to the same apparent temperature as empty space; they can only help to mask the true size of her bulk at long distances.

So they scan the entire sky, with an aperture only a few minutes of arc wide.

In the time they have, they make what preparations they can for a landing on a foreign planet with unknown conditions. The Swift Wind’s records are literally a millennium out of date.

“All right,” Bow says eventually. “I’m bringing us into a standard approach on Krytis.”

“What’s that mean?” Adora asks.

“Hyperbolic approach into a highly inclined orbit, low altitude, for surveying. According to the records Krytis has a rotational period close to twenty-two hours.”

Adora knows what all of those words mean individually.

He continues: “But we might want to do powered flyovers of the upper atmosphere instead, as that could potentially be faster. We should really set up a makeshift network of surveying satellites —” he flips down his mask with a nod and checks something in the virtual space “— yeah, we actually have a lot of drones on hand for that. Figures, this being a scientific vessel and all.”

“I am so glad you’re our pilot.”

Bow flips up his mask. “Aw. Thanks, Captain.”

They both look at the visualization of their approach, projected onto the wall screens.

“Are you just planning on standing there in a power stance until we arrive?” Bow asks.

Adora blushes. She is indeed doing a power-stance, resting her hands on the hilt of Parabell, which wears its new scabbard so as to not gouge the floor. She’s twirls it around and sheathes in the arm strap and handle of Stella Nova, idly rotating in mid-air behind her shoulder.

“I was, until you got weird about it.”

Bow chuckles. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Adora shakes her head, turning around. “It’s a new thing this, whole…” she gestures vaguely. “Starlight is love, you know? But I think that also means I have to love _myself._ And part of that is just—” she grabs the sword again, twirls it, sets it against the floor and strikes the pose. It looks, admittedly, pretty cool. “You know what I mean?”

“Oh I definitely see it.”

* * *

The armoury is physically adjacent to fabrication, in the opposite direction of the vehicle bay.

It’s not a large space, but the space is economically put to use; huge racks on rails, sliding back and forth to allow access only to one or two at a time. There’s enough space for even the largest small-arms, but that is all-in-all not a lot. Artillery, if need be, is stored in the vehicle bay.

Catra peruses the catalogue. It is mostly standard issue things, for First-Ones anyway. The ubiquitous ‘personal defense/utility weapon,’ the Yala-Zev is there. Compact, powerful, not overly accurate at range. There’s the Zev hologram-action sidearms, precision rifles, and support automatics; all with the curving stocks so unlike the conventional straight stocks

Even just tracing the names attached, she gets a feel for the history of arms development in the First-Ones’ empire. Zev was apparently some prolific genius firearms designer who invented the holographic bullet.

There’s the terrifying Toha-Zev Gravitron Beam Emitter, named for Zev only for the fact that it is built on the chassis of a Zev precision rifle. Toha being the progenitor of the incredibly destructive weapons system, which scaled up would go on to arm spacecraft.

There’s the palm sized ‘wand’ guns, little more than ergonomically shaped steel, controlled entirely by user intension. The raygun action it uses is the same as Swift Wind’s point defense system; and the weapon she used to sink the Candilan battleship.

Another rack entirely has personal defensive devices mêlée weapons: riot shields of clear polymer that change size and withstand machine gun fire, inflatable mobile cover, stun batons, spears that fold up into daggers.

But for all the wondrous impossible tech, there’s also the familiar. Projectiles made of metal and explosive, propelled by the deflagration of nitro-compounds. Grenade launchers. The simple joy of ‘bloop’ followed by a resounding ‘ker-bang’ was not lost on the First-Ones.

“Catra,” Entrapta says, startling Catra. She’s floating; hence why Catra didn’t hear her enter.

Catra turns around, holding the grenade launcher in her hands.

“I’ve got a hazard suit for you.”

“What?”

“For excursions when we land?”

Catra blinks. “Oh. Uh…” She stows the grenade launcher back on the rack.

“There’s the matter of your tail and ears,” she says and holds up a helmet. The visor’s contour mimics Catra’s forehead protector, and the color is red-brown. On the side of it are two pads of softer material.

“See, your ears are a part of your ability to emote, which is vital for communication, but I couldn’t put actuated ear compartments on it without compromising the structural integrity of the helmet, so instead there’s a set of intentionality controllers and two externally mounted pads of memory polymer which simulate your ear movement.”

Then she reaches into a large fanny pack, and draws out a tube of flexible segmented armor. “As for your tail; should I mount this or do you just want just a pouch for it?”

“Do whatever; I’m not going.”

“Why?”

“I’m in no condition to go. You’re my physician, you should know.”

Catra really isn’t. Eight months of substituting alcohol, smoking, and enhancements, for physical exercise, balanced diet, and enough sleep has taken a rather acute toll on her that she might never recover from fully. Entrapta’s standing recommendation is a weight-gain diet, strength training, and a regular sleep schedule. Forever.

Even now she has a meal bar in her pocket, and if all goes well she might live to see sixty — that is of course unless Adora magics up some serious healing; a virtual certainty.

“Well, that’s why you need a hazard suit! I built yours with a full powered exoskeleton. You’ll be pretty close to your old enhanced strength with it on.”

Catra processes this for a beat. Then she says: “The ears are fine; the tail needs to be part of the powered exoskeleton too. Maybe I should take it for spin to see if it chafes?”

* * *

They enter an orbit around Krytis, and Bow begins the work of deploying a satellite swarm.

Glimmer enters the control center, gliding silently on her wings in reduced personal gravity.

Bow gives a small jerk of surprise, as she drapes her arms around his neck from behind, and he pushes his mask up.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey yourself.”

“We are now packed and ready for just about any excursion we could undertake. Dare I say we might be even better prepared than you and Adora were when you went to Beast Island.”

“How do you know what we—”

“I checked the inventory logs.”

“So what did we miss?”

Glimmer hugs him tighter. “Me. And I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. And… I forgive you.”

Glimmer’s heart flutters. She smells his hair; has she always loved the way he smelled? Maybe.

“What made you come back to me yesterday?”

“Gentle encouragement from Adora.”

“She really is our hero, isn’t she?”

“She really is.”

“Say… Do you want to move in with me?”

Bow turns his head. “Come again?”

“One of the two-person suites. With me. The bed is bigger; I know how my wings can get in the way.”

He reaches up and strokes her cheek. “I’d like that.”

* * *

The simulation room is the single most unreal space on the Swift Wind. Ordinarily it serves as a gym for PE, but its main purpose is to do duty as a scenario simulator. By bending space and perception, it can turn into virtually any space obeying virtually any rules.

Right now, it is a dojo, not unlike one in which Damara, then only Mara, trained a long age ago in the ways of traditional combat.

“The sword is not a sharp stick you hit people with!” Damara says sternly, as she sends Adora to the floor, clutching a painful chest wound.

The wound really is just a red blemish on her bodysuit, but the pain is real enough. She grunts. “You’re an _awful_ teacher, you know that?” She rolls to her feet, holds a hand out, and Parabell leaps into it.

“And yet, those of my crew which I trained in this fashion showed mastery three times faster than baseline rates.” She twirls her own sword, a bluish, slender blade. “The sword is an extension of yourself. It is not enough that it obeys your every command, some things you will need to react to before your conscious mind can even _command it._ Stance!”

Adora falls into a fencer’s stance: side-on off hand behind the small of her back, blade forward. No shield, because when they tried it first, Damara noted that she used it as a crutch to mask her lack of skill with the blade. Which makes sense, considering that Stella Nova has factored into Adora’s training routines for almost a year now.

Damara gestures for Adora to come at her, and she does. A lunge, a parry, swift counter-thrust, low swipe, and then Damara opens Adora up from crotch to shoulder. Adora yelps in surprise and pain, falling over. “Too slow! You’re _She-Ra_ so _move like it!_ ”

Adora rolls to her feet, then notices something out the corner of her eye. She looks. Damara’s blade enters her field of vision, its tip an inch from her eyeball. “Focus, daughter mine.”

Adora points at Catra, watching their little training session from the sidelines.

“Don’t mind me!” Catra says. “I’m just enjoying watching Adora getting her butt kicked.”

Damara turns to Catra. “Do you favor the blade, Catra?”

Catra shrugs. “I’m not in great shape, but I did once take a robber king’s sword and decapitate him with it.”

Damara gestures for her to join them. “Why don’t you show Adora how it’s done, then? Don’t worry, it is quite safe. As for the weapon, you need only wish for it, and it shall appear.”

Catra walks in, wearing her new hazard suit; no longer do her steps feel plodding and heavy, and she doesn’t have to pile on sweaters to stay warm. And yet there’s no exchange of life for power; it’s just a prosthesis, and one day she’ll be recovered enough that she won’t need it. A small kind of freedom.

“What’s with the whole formal-speak, Damara?” Catra asks. She holds out a hand, and in it, her sword forms out of thin air. Tung Lashor’s bane — or a replica of it at any rate.

“I’m just in character,” Damara replies, giggling. “That’s an unusual sword. Well, you two have at it, I need to go check in on the survey — Bow has deployed the satellite swarm.”

She vanishes, leaving Adora and Catra.

“Are you sure about this?” Adora asks. “You said yourself you’re pretty weak.”

“Entrapta had a fix for that.” She spins, showing off the slightly bulky suit. Then she flips op her helmet, and the ears come online. She falls into a stance — a fool’s guard, with the sword held low.

Adora takes a fencer’s stance again.

And then they engage in the age-old tradition of siblings beating each other up with sticks. Sharp sticks, but still.

* * *

“So, what are we looking at?” Adora asks, striding into the control center. She is and riding the body-high of life-or-death combat, and _ready._

Catra limps in afterwards, victorious and physically unhurt, but the mind can make a limp real over the memory of impalement alone.

Everyone else is gathered there too.

“In a way, nothing at all,” Damara says. “Virtually the entire planet is under heavy cloud cover, which is not a good sign, because there’s no climactic circumstances to imply that should be the case. Cloud-penetrating radars reveal the coarse topography is unchanged from the data on record, save perhaps for a few ‘battles scars’ if you will.”

“Signs of life?” Adora asks.

“None. It’s been ‘glassed,’ same as Antioch.”

“Acid rain?”

“No spectrographic evidence that there’s any sulfur compounds in the clouds, no evidence it even _rains_ down there.”

“But there’s clouds.”

“Yeah. That’s what’s freaking me out.”

Adora looks around the room. Everyone is a little take aback by Damara of all people — always the level-headed beacon of stable rationality, being _freaked out._

She turns to look out the wall screens, at the cloud-covered vast sphere below them.

“Oh, and surface gravity is quite a bit higher than Etheria. That means excursions will be more fatiguing, and falls are more dangerous. Thankfully, the traits for handling Eternian gravity seems to still be prevalent in the gene pool these days; none of you should have any trouble.”

“Let’s get below clouds, and do a search pattern, we’re looking for a flat place to land near something interesting to look at,” Adora says.

* * *

Bow brings them in for a smooth atmospheric entry and begins a flight through the atmosphere.

The vista, as they breach the cloud cover, is… Bleak. The overcast skies and the dark landscape come together to enforce an atmosphere of gloom, suitable for such a dead world.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about the gravity,” Glimmer says.

“Says the girl with wings,” Catra says.

“Let’s see if there’s any artificial structures; we’re probably going to get the most out of those,” Adora says.

Damara switches the wall screens view to the bottom of the ship, like the gondola on a supersonic airship. Entrapta is quick to spot something of interest, and grabs an image of it, projected large for all to see.

One of Prime’s spires.

Toppled over.

With what might look like claw marks in it.

Except each claw cut is wide enough for a man to walk through, and they run the width of the enormous structure. Whatever made these marks could plough fields by honing its claws in the dirt.

“Okay. That’s at least proof Prime was here,” Glimmer says.

“Let’s hope whatever had claws like that is not around anymore,” Catra says.

“In any case, we’re landing there. Let’s do a full suit-up,” Adora says. “I don’t want to take any chances; keep alert, just in case Catra’s fears come true.”

“The atmosphere _is_ safe to breathe,” Entrapta notes. “We could just filter external air.”

“Somehow, I’m not inclined to risk it,” Adora says.

* * *

“Entrapta, did you color-code our suits?” Adora asks.

Catra is already wearing hers in dark reds.

Adora’s is white, with gold accents, and the contour of her visor has the outline of an owl’s beak at the top like a widow’s peak, making the visor itself almost heart-shaped.

“Yeah, why?” Entrapta asks, already donning hers, with its leg exoskeleton and large backpack. Dark grey, black and white accents, purple tentacles, and the externally mounted purple pigtails of artificial articulate hair.

“No reason.” She turns to look at Bow donning his: it is in a lush green camouflage-pattern. “Just… Isn’t it a little obvious?”

Bow puts on his helmet and fiddles with an eye-tracking menu in his visor; then the lush green changes to darker greys and browns more suited to the surface they are about to step onto. “The pigmentation is adjustable,” he says, “under ‘camo’ in the quick-select.” He throws a cloak over his shoulders and checks that the fabric’s active camouflage works — it readily adopts the pattern of the wall behind him. Satisfied, he taps it, and the cloak folds itself up into a fat collar around his shoulders.

Then Adora looks to Glimmer, who is turning hers lilac and adding sparkles.

“ _You say that like it’s a good thing,_ ” Adora mutters under her breath.

“Look! I’m pink!” Wrong Hordak says.

And indeed he is. Seven feet tall and hot pink from tip to toe.

“C’mon, get suited up,” Catra says. “I’m sure we can find some way to get the stains out if you smudge that pristine white.”

* * *

Entrapta, accompanied by Wrong Hordak, drives the heavy hover-rover off the vehicle bay ramp, trailing several hovering cargo beds full of ready-made measurement equipment and mobile laboratories, onto the barren earth below the Swift Wind. Accompanying her are three drone gunships, aerodynamic things the size of two-man speeders, armed with several nasty surprises.

Bow and Glimmer take off on a glider and wings, accompanied by yet more drones.

Adora and Catra disembark on speeders, setting out for the ruined spire in the distance at a cautious pace.

“Uh, Adora?” Catra says. The intentionality controller in her helmet microphone puts them on a private channel.

“Yeah?”

Catra puts her speeder behind Adora’s, and slaves it to her controls, then digs out a helmet-mounted camera, attaches it, and uses it’s stabilizing and higly magnified view finder to scan the surrounding area.

“Did you see something?” Adora asks.

“Maybe. I— I might just be paranoid.”

“Sanity is the baseline assumption,” Adora quotes. _Intelligence Operations: A Treatise._

“For someone who can’t read good, you sure do quote a lot of books,” Catra says. “It was probably just a dust devil.”

It is windy, and there is a lot of dark sand here; though it is broken up by patches of strange moss-like vegetation, in subdued colors.

“Lichens,” Catra notes, point at a patch as they pass it. “Remember roof scrubbing duty?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

They reach the toppled spire, and tether their speeders, dismounting, and gearing up. Adora takes her big backpack off its saddle mount and attaches it to her suit’s shoulder hard points.

Catra attaches a rifle to each of her shoulder mounts — one precision, the other a squad support automatic — and her own smaller luggages to the hip-mounts on her suit.

Four personal defense drones rise from their speeders, and fly after them.

As they approach, Catra holds up a hand. “Wait, see that?” She points to the base of the spire, just a hundred paces away. The base of it has collapsed _through_ the ground. “A sinkhole.”

“That might not be stable ground,” Adora concludes. With a flick of her eyes, she activates one of the spy-drones in her pack, and sends it ahead. It’s main vision is streamed to both their visors.

Adora directs it up to the hull of the space-faring spire structure, to see that the hull is corroded.

“That’s weird,” Catra notes. “Send it into the hole.”

Adora directs the tiny hovering drone down between the spire’s hull and the edge of the sinkhole to reveal a cavern, with stalagmites rising from the floor, and stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Mineral growths encroach on the base of the toppled spire.

“We found something,” Adora says. She directs the drone to record its vision, and unfolds a sample drill. The minerals growing against the spire seem to accelerate the corrosion of the hull material. Drilling a sample takes time — it’s a very hard mineral, whatever it is.

“ _Good, because we found nothing,_ ” Glimmer says.

“ _I might have something, in a few minutes,_ ” Entrapta says.

“Sending back a sample,” Adora says. The little spy drone flies up through the hole, and heads straight home to the Swift Wind, accelerating hard.

“So, how do we actually get over there?” Catra asks. “Speeders aren’t weightless.”

Adora reaches out and plucks Stella Nova from the air, then turns it inside up, and lays it down on the ground, where it hovers a foot in the air. “Step up.”

Catra accepts Adora’s helping hand hand for balance, and steps onto the outer part of the shield. Then Adora steps on, and hugs Catra close, which she doesn’t mind one bit. Then the shield begins moving, and Catra almost loses her balance.

* * *

“Entrapta said there should be a rugged recording device,” Adora notes, as they walk up the outside of the fallen body of the spire. "From the looks of the schematics, it might have been destroyed by the claws.

They enter through one of said gashes in the hull.

The insides of the spire has suffered the toll not only of a claw swipe from something the size of a mountain, but also the fall, and however many centuries it has been lying there; whatever isn’t outright smashed or corroded, is covered in thick dust.

“Let’s get looking.”

“ _This is strange,_ ” Entrapta notes.

“Report?” Adora asks.

“ _I sampled some of the lichen-like growths, and ran biochemical analyses. It seems they are photosynthetic organisms._ ”

“And what does that mean?” Catra asks.

“ _They use sunlight to make sugar — food — out of moisture — water — and carbon dioxide — exhalation gas — in the air._ ”

Adora looks back through the gash in the hull, at the perpetual twilight of the overcast sky. “What sunlight?”

“ _That is why I said it was strange._ ”

“ _I think we saw something,_ ” Bow says. “ _Which is to say, both of us agree there was something, but our helmet cams don’t show it on playback._ ”

“ _It was just a shadow,_ ” Glimmer says. “ _And it was really far away._ ”

Adora and Catra share a glance. “Let’s get this over with,” Adora says.

* * *

They are no more strange occurrences for the rest of the day. Catra and Adora retrieve the recording device, and scrounge up whatever salvage looks promising while they still have what passes for daylight here on Krytis.

Glimmer and Bow have collected everything from weather data to soil samples and seismic readings from the entire valley area.

Entrapta and Wrong Hordak have been mapping out the immediate landing area with the same level of detail, testing chemical compositions and running deep ground-radar scans.

“There’s definitely evidence of First-Ones’ cthonic infrastructure here,” Entrapta notes, at their end-of-day-debrief-slash-dinner in the mess. “But it’s too far below the surface here to access.”

“We need to find an access point like the Crystal Castle,” Adora says.

“Yeah, that would be the obvious solution,” Entrapta concurs.

“There’s a lot of battle scars,” Glimmer notes, “the big glass-patches from Prime’s orbital bombardment. More so than what we saw on Antioch, he _really_ wanted this planet dead.”

“Damara, what’s the status on the data from the spire?” Adora asks.

Damara materializes. “Most of the storage medium is damaged, but from what I’ve been able to read using contact microscopy, a retreat order was called, preceding the bombardment.”

“Impossible,” Wrong Hordak says.

“Hey, are you okay?” Glimmer asks him. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

“I—” he says. “Horde Prime has never called for a retreat; that is the purpose of the clone army, they press on regardless of— of— Krytis, if it even _was_ bombarded _chose_ death over assimilation, that is how— how it’s supposed to be. Planets are _precious_ and to squander one on account of a failed invasion—”

He puts down his fork.

Adora gets up, and heads down the table, to take a seat next to him. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know how you feel,” she says.

“You— you do?”

“When you realize what you’ve been told all your life might not be true. You want to sit somewhere and think it all through, because you hope you’re wrong, but the more you do, the more incongruities you find.”

Tears begin rolling down Wrong Hordak’s cheeks. “But— how? How am I to be an exalted brother of prime if— if I can’t accept his teachings? If I have these doubts? I have to attend reconditioning; it is required that—”

“Adora, if I may?” Damara says. “Wrong Hordak, would you be willing to discuss this with me in private?”

“I— I am not allowed to—” He hiccups.

“I am able to help you,” Damara adds, “with… Reconditioning.”

He considers it with quivering lip. “ _Please,_ ” he says. She offers a hand, and he takes it. The leave the mess.

“Will he be okay?” Glimmer asks.

“If there’s anyone who can help him out of this crisis it’s her,” Adora says, “Mara had to convince her entire squadron to reject the cause they were sworn to, way back when. I know how hard it can be to believe your eyes over what you’re told by the people you’re supposed to trust.”

She turns to the others. “So. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Catra says. “This place is giving me the creeps. Sparkles and Bow saw something; _I_ saw something, and apparently this permanently overcast planet has plants that need sunlight to grow.”

“That last one is arguably the strangest,” Entrapta says. “You might just have seen native wildlife, or a dust devil.”

“One that doesn’t show up on video feed?” Catra shoots back. “Something weird is going on.”

“I’d say the second-strangest is actually the mineral sample that was eating the Horde spire; there was no evidence of a process that could do that. Eye-witness accounts are known to be unreliable.”

“Even chances that whatever weirdness is going on might be what we’re here _for,_ ” Adora says.

“Yeah. Did you guys leave anything out there?” Catra asks. “Like, far enough away from the ship —”

“Spacecraft,” Entrapta corrects.

“— that the security systems can’t intervene?”

“We left a few measurement devices, to take on-going readings,” Entrapta says.

“Then let’s wait and see what happens to them,” Catra concludes.

* * *

Nothing at all.

Adora wakes the next dim, twilit morning, to find the foot end of her bed empty.

“Catra?”

No answer. “Damara, where is Catra?”

“ _She’s in the control center._ ”

Adora gets out of bed — having once more slept in her body suit; the thing is both comfortable and pretty close to self-cleaning, so indeed why wear anything else? — and heads there on bare feet, tying up her hair as she walks.

She enters to find Catra sitting there, in her sleeping onseie, curled up in a chair, with dark circles around her eyes. On a holographic panel in front of her is the readout logs of the remote measurement devices.

A few MRE packets are lying on the floor.

“Catra?”

She looks up. “Hey Adora.”

“How much did you sleep?”

“A few hours, on and off. I’m… Having nightmares. Different ones, this time.”

Adora pulls up a chair. “Anything you’d like to talk about?”

She shakes her head. “I’m just imagining things.”

“Yesterday you were pretty adamant that ‘just seeing things’ wasn’t an option.”

Catra frowns. “This whole world is a graveyard. I dreamt there was dead people in the ground.”

“Maybe you should take the day off,” Adora suggests.

Catra shakes her head. “I’m eating, as you can see. I’ve been sitting here most of the night, resting — just not sleeping. I just need some coffee; I’ll be fine.”

“Come have breakfast with the rest of us.”

* * *

Glimmer is cooking, and Bow is sitting by a long table moved right up to the entrance to the kitchen. There’s waffles, sausages, and fruit for breakfast.

“Adora, Catra!” Bow greets them. He looks almost aglow with contented happiness. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Catra says. “I— This place is freaking me out a bit.”

“Coffee for sleepless cats!” Glimmer says, cheerfully, coming in with two large thermo carafes. “And tea for those of us who prefer that.”

She’s wearing the ‘kiss the cook’ apron.

Catra looks from one to the other. “You two seem chipper.”

“We didn’t get much sleep either,” Glimmer says, with a smile, “ _if you know what I mean._ ”

“I do and I wish I didn’t,” Catra says deadpan.

Adora avails herself of the small buffet at the bar, and decks two plates — decks one and kind of heaps on the other — then serves Catra the modest portion, which is still a lot of food.

Entrapta comes in, floating, in her by now usual state of barely modest undress, propelled by the single tentacle arm on her belt. “I smell waffles?”

“Made you a batch of extra small ones!” Glimmer says.

Following her, is Wrong Hordak. He is dressed in mostly pink, still, but less that of someone accepting fashion advice, and more someone who is beginning to consider his own fashion choices. Today he’s mimicking Adora, it would seem, going by the body-suit, utility belt, and pompadour hair.

He takes a seat next to Adora.

“Hey, Wrong Hordak, how are you?”

He frowns. “Troubled,” he says, politely. “There’s a great ongoing injustice done to my brethren, at the hands of the false prophet we so undeservedly call ‘big brother.’ I— It seems an almost insurmountable task, but I am gathering courage to begin the work of toppling him.”

Adora gives him a thumb-up.

“Why do you want me to inspect your digit?”

“It’s a gesture of approval,” Adora explains.

Wrong Hordak looks at his hand, then makes a thumb and holds it forward. “How odd.”

“You can also turn it downwards to show disapproval,” Adora adds, and indicates.

“Interesting; a sign of dual meaning depending on orientation,” Wrong Hordak says, still looking at his thumb. He turns it downwards, testing it. “I disapprove of Horde Prime.”

“Amen, brother,” Glimmer says. She sets a plate in front of him. “Have some waffles, and welcome to the resistance.”

* * *

They spend the morning salvaging everything that might contain data storage aboard the spire ship; Entrapta falls into the role as leader, directing the others to do the work with power drills and pry bars, while she tears apart the electronics for the prizes of data inside.

“It’s still out there,” Catra says, bracing a heavy cabinet full of electronics. “The thing from yesterday.”

“What makes you say that?” Glimmer asks, unscrewing the bolts holding it in place.

“I felt its eyes on us, from we left the ship until we entered here.”

“I didn’t feel anything—”

“Yeah, I think I’m just going crazy,” Catra says.

“— no, I mean, I don’t have your instincts. That’s why I’m the stewardess and you’re the analyst.”

Catra takes the load of the cabinet, and the servos in her suit protest, but hold. Glimmer rushes to get the terrain-capable hover cart for it.

Most of the spire is taken up by the fusion torch engine, the ansible antenna, and the holographic projector array; all of which are controlled remotely from the brains of the landing craft, roughly in the middle of the long body. Right where the claw marks have opened the hull up.

They return to the Swift Wind for lunch — sandwiches — and news.

“I’ve cross-referenced our fresh topographical scan of the planet with the… Shall we say doctrinal guidelines on the Heart of Etheria project I have access to,” Damara says.

“You found us an entry point,” Adora says.

“I did. If we fly high altitude, we can be there in forty minutes.”

Bow wipes a dash of mayonnaise off his palm with a napkin, then starts to rise. “You eat,” Damara says, gesturing for him to sit down, “The autopilot can handle takeoff and in-flight on this handily.”

“Oh!” Glimmer says. “High altitude, as in above the clouds? I can’t be the only one who misses the sun, can I?”

There’s a round of assenting murmurs.

As the Swift Wind ascends above the dark clouds, they all gather in the control room, to enjoy the sight of daylight; recreated so faithfully by the wall screens you can tan by it, if you turn off the right filters.

As much as Catra longs for a nap in the sun, she can’t seen to draw her eyes away from the clouds below for very long.


	15. Krytis, Wreathed in Darkness

The closest landing spot is on the foothill slopes of a mountain, and the Swift Wind’s landing legs can’t quite compensate for the angle, leading the whole interior tilted a few degrees towards the nose of the craft.

Down in the valley, by the dried-up run of the river that carved this valley out in ages past, lies the ruins of a village. Stone foundations, half buried in the dark sand.

With the remains of the day, they are going to scout the mountain side, possibly locate the entrance to the underworld structures, and set up a base camp for delving into the depths below.

“Hey,” Adora says, coming up to Catra in the vehicle bay, as they are gearing up for the excursion. One arm held behind her back.

“What?” Catra asks.

“I got you something.”

Adora brings forth a plain and utilitarian scabbard. In it rests Parabell, but a shorter blade with an elongated hilt as long as the blade, to match the dimensions of Catra’s old weapon.

Catra takes it, grasping the scabbard by its built-in carry-handle, and unsheathes the blade. She gives it a twirl. “Adora, I can’t take this; what are you going to—”

Adora snaps her fingers, and another Parabell appears in her hand. “Catra, it’s my infinite supply of magic swords. I decide who gets one. I figure whatever is out there, if it comes to get us and guns prove ineffective, the sword of She-Ra might give it pause.”

Catra sheathes her Parabell and attaches the scabbard to the small of her back. “Thanks.”

* * *

The four of them leave on speeders, while Entrapta and Wrong Hordak take the heavy wheeled rover, with Wrong Hordak manning the double Toha-cannon turret. The sky above them is patrolled by a dozen drones.

The trip up the mountain is uneventful, but a slog. Bow, Adora, Glimmer, and Catra execute a grid search, while the rover merrily rolls on uphill at a much slower pace.

Halfway up the mountain, Glimmer spots a collapsed section of cliff-face, which upon closer inspection by Entrapta, reveals itself to be the entrance to a tunnel. Some quick-and-dirty work with excavation explosives gets them a small rock slide and an entrance.

Taking no chances, they set up tunnel supports as they go in, and finally reach an artificial wall: weathered, painted metal; a gate with First-Ones’ runes on it.

At the seam where the two sliding halves meet, are a series of dents, as if something with clawed hands forced its fingers in-between them, perhaps forcing the door open.

“Eternia,” Adora says, answering the inscribed riddle.

Nothing.

“Must be broken,” Bow says.

“You need a door?” Catra says, and steps up. She draws her sword and laying her might into it, cuts directly through the inches-thick steel gate, metal shrieking. She lays another cut perpendicular to the first, completing a triangle with the seam between the halves of the gate.

With a kick, she sends the severed segment clattering into the dark hallway beyond. “There’s your door.”

The others enter; Adora lingers. “That was… Something,” she says, approvingly.

“Yeah; I’m not about to dally out here while Entrapta finds a beam cutter and melts our way through.” She looks towards the cave entrance. “Something’s out there. I can feel it stalking us.”

“Then let’s operate under the assumption that we could be under attack soon.”

They head in.

The corridors are not lined with the crystalline panels as they are in the Crystal castle. Here is only painted steel. They traverse the darkness by a light spell from Glimmer.

They reach an entry hall, much like the one in the crystal castle, but plainer; the back wall is lined with doors.

“All right,” Adora says. “This seems safe-ish and at the very least, familiar. We’ll set up base camp here. We’re going to clear every room and barricade every corridor we can’t clear. I want a portal to the Swift Wind, permanent illumination, and autonomous point-defense turrets covering each door. Once we find the one we’re going to be using, we’ll weld the others shut.”

That order alone covers an hours of hard work, from all of them. The turrets unfold from cases, and will fire at any target not wearing identification as friendly — such as by wearing First-Ones’ hazard suits. The barricades are a type of bullet-proof expanding foam. It is tense, tedious work. Room after room of empty and shadow, braved with guns held high, ready for _something_ and pointed only at _nothing._

“Wrong Hordak, you set up the measuring stations outside same as yesterday, Entrapta I want you to search this place for anything we might learn more from — an interface or a data crystal, anything. Glimmer and Bow, I need you to bust open the elevator shafts and find the most promising one, then weld the rest. Catra, you and I are going to use Swift Wind’s portal device to start moving supplies in, we need pressure tents, provisions, a fabricator setup, and a local portal device so we can stow the speeders and rover in here.”

Entrapta’s efforts yield precious little — the data networking in the facility is down completely, and there’s not one data crystal to scrounge up. Which means they have to go deeper.

They spend the night at the base camp, carefully observing decontamination procedure in the tiny airlocks for the pressure tents, and again, nothing befalls their measuring equipment, standing outside.

* * *

Damara has news in the morning: the analysis of the data storage mediums from the spire has yielded a _very_ fragmented order of events.

 _Something_ is responsible for driving him off the planet. An entity. A statistical analysis report shows a correlation between the loss of Krytisian life, and the severity of the attacks. Weather records are congruent with the gradual appearance of an overcast permanent twilight as the operation progressed.

None of this is good news.

The descent into the elevator shaft by rappelling line is uneventful and very long. Per Adora’s orders, the helmets come off for nothing; and even if they did, the oxygen content in the air in here is too low to breathe. That means lunch is MRE gruel through the built-in straw at the base of their helmets.

“So what do you think we’ll find down here?” Catra asks.

“The boring but useful answer is ‘nothing except what we came for,’ but…” Adora says.

They are all in agreement that there is something else on the planet with them.

Out of the six of them, only Entrapta is unarmed — and that’s a very technical definition of ‘unarmed’ as her custom built suit is physically stronger than even She-Ra. Even Bow has switched his precision rifle for an automatic support weapon.

Even the decision to bring guns hinges on whatever they might encounter being susceptible to holographic bullets and directed energy weapons. That’s why Catra is carrying the grenade launcher, just to mix it up.

They let a small swarm of scanner drones do the bulk of the mapping, and scout ahead with combat drones, before progressing physically. As fast as they are acquiring data, it feels slow.

Different to the Crystal Castle, there is no high-category unreality field here, no mad personality construct, and no shifting topology. There’s corridors; a lot of them closed off for ongoing construction.

There’s expansive pitch black rooms that were either yet to be fitted with machinery or which has had their contents _shredded_ leaving piles of broken tech and electronics.

Every data interface has been torn. The ship has plenty of power, but no way to control it, really.

By the depth meter, they delve almost a half a mile down just that day, before calling in a portal to the base camp.

* * *

“We’re making good progress,” Adora notes as they eat ‘dinner’ together in the largest pressure tent.

“Are we?” Catra asks. “It seems to me we are only investigating the surface layer; those tunnels could and do go on for miles. We’ll never map it out at this rate.”

And the rate in question is blistering. They have mapped dozens of of miles of tunnels.

“The tunnels of this place seem pretty close in function and layout to what I know of the Crystal Castle,” Adora says. “Entrapta?”

“Yeah,” Entrapta concurs. “Barring changes in layout to accommodate local variations in geology, this is pretty close to what I remember from the Sky Stone about construction doctrines. There’s tunnels, sure, but as we delve deep, eventually we should find just a shaft going down, as far down as they got. The accessible surface warrants infrastructure, as does the construction of the Heart at the core. Everything else is just distance to traverse.”

“So, what, a few more days of this?” Catra asks.

“Only if we’re unlucky.”

* * *

Adora wakes in the night, to the sound of Catra whimpering in her sleep.

Their little pressure tent doesn’t even have two separate beds; just an extra long slightly wider one, to give Adora room to exist as her seven-foot-tall self, and Catra space to curl up by her knees.

“Cat,” she says, in the darkness. She holds up a hand and gently eases starlight into her palm for illumination. Little motes of it rise from her hand, unbidden, like sparks from a fire.

Catra is curled up in fetal position, shivering despite her onesie and Mylar-insulated blanket.

Adora puts a hand on her side, and Catra jerks awake — at least partially. The sleeping pills Entrapta gave her are still in effect. “ _Hey Adora,_ ” she slurs.

“C’mere,” Adora says, and takes her hand, pulling her up. Catra follows languidly, drowsy, and confused.

Adora lays her down, then cuddles up to her as big spoon. “You’re safe, Cat. I’m here.”

“ _No light, no life,_ ” Catra mutters. “ _Bright eyes, skies, and lies. Green without growth or oath. King’s consorts and living glass. We’re not supposed to be here. None of us were._ ”

Then she breathes a sigh, and relaxes.

Adora tries to lie down and let herself fall asleep, but the strange words stick in her mind. And feeling Catra’s small form against her is… Distracting, in ways she can’t quite name.

Eventually sleep takes her as well.

She wakes up to an empty bed, warm where Catra lay in her arms.

* * *

Outside the tent, the camp is abuzz with preparation for the day’s delve into the artificial underworld beneath them. Breakfast isn’t really a formal meal here.

Wrong Hordak notices her and comes jogging. “Adora, might I ask why you used your starlight this night?”

Of course he would notice. Him and Bow take the night shifts, on account of needing a lot less sleep than the rest of them.

“Catra had a bad dream, and I just didn’t want to bother with the tent light while I got her to calm down. Why?”

“I just wondered, since your tent was lit from around midnight until shortly before you emerged.”

“What? No, I was asleep…” Adora asks. She thinks back. In the back of her mind, quickly fading, she remembers a dream about the warmth and soft glow of a fireplace. “Huh. I might have channeled it in my sleep. Where’s Catra?”

“Right here.”

Adora jumps, and spins, to see Catra.

“Hey Adora.”

She looks better. “How have you slept?”

“Oh, miles better.”

Adora smiles.

Catra hands her an MRE packet. “You overslept; that’s very unlike you.”

Adora takes it. Persimmon flavor; her favourite.

* * *

Luck is with them. Going through the portal to where they left off the day before, they continue done the next unexplored corridor, and after about a mile, emerge into a vast vertical shaft. The cross-section is hexagonal; it is a hundred feet across.

“I guess we found the shaft,” Bow notes.

Adora looks over the railing, into the abyss. “I see a landing down below; difficult to judge how far. We should check it out before we go deeper.”

In order to go deeper, they set up a temporary elevator. The hover drives in their suits can get them down, but will overheat and malfunction given sufficient strain. A few hundred miles of nanotube cable won’t.

It’s a short portal hop back to camp to fetch the necessary equipment.

“Bow, you know how to drill and tap?” Entrapta asks, holding up a power drill.

They use magnetic clamps to climb the metal walls of the shaft and drill and tap holes in the half-inch-thick metal of the walls at regular intervals, going all around the shaft, installing dozens of sturdy hooks. Using a drone, Entrapta weaves a star polygon, spanning the circumference of the entire shaft, and then using that to weave another smaller star polygon in its interior, iterating the process until it meets in a knot in the center of the shaft.

There, they attach the slightly wider elevator cable, and the lightweight elevator car.

“And if someone cuts this?” Catra asks skeptically, twanging the tight dark grey two-inch-wide ribbon they are suspending the gondola from. It is sharp enough to mar the finish on her glove finger.

“Don’t worry, the gondola has hover elements built in,” Entrapta says.

The drum of cable is immense, despite the nanotube ribbon being literally thousands of an inch thick.

They begin their descent.

Below them, the second landing comes closer; it turns out to be about half a mile down. They stop by it. Entrapta tethers the gondola to the hand rails, and they all jump off.

The hallway leading away is pitch dark. Two scanner drones fly on ahead, while one of the three heavy combat drones take vanguard. It turns out to be a ten minute walk before they reach anything of note, and when they do, Adora emerges into a familiar scene.

A gigantic dome-shaped room. Featureless, save for a hexagonal pattern tiling the floor.

“I remember a room like this,” Adora says. “From the Crystal Castle.”

“Really?” Catra asks.

“Remember the room of infinite darkness?”

Catra has to take a second to recall that far back. “Yeah.”

“I think that was the first time I went there. It was Light Hope’s ‘home’ if she ever had one. Free space for her to alter with her powers. I was deposited there when I destroyed the Aegis and killed her.”

“This place is empty,” Glimmer notes. Her light spell is the only thing powerful enough to illuminate the whole space.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bow says. “They built all this infrastructure. It seems like they got pretty far with the whole Heart of Krytis project, why did they abandon it?”

“I might have an answer to that,” Entrapta says.

“Go on?” Bow asks.

“There’s no oxygen here,” she says.

Everyone kind of stares, dumbfounded.

After a while, Entrapta understands that she is the only one who knows the significance of that. “Spaces that are closed off by airtight seals for prolonged periods are dangerous to enter, because the volatile oxygen in the air tends to slowly react with — well, everything. It’s a slow process, depending on the composition of things inside the room. This place is, however, _enormous._ At baseline rates of oxygen depletion, it would take hundreds of years to de-oxygenate — and since there’s virtually no doors…”

She consults the map they’ve made and does some quick maths. “It would take at least hundreds of years for this place to become as oxygen deprived as it is. Could very well have been that it has been sealed for over a thousand.”

“Which means it was destroyed then, too,” Adora notes.

“I can’t say conclusively, but it’s a possibility.”

“So whatever wrecked this place also did in Horde Prime’s invasion,” Catra notes. “That would be a compelling story. That doesn’t make it true, but I’m sure as shit going to be unnerved by it.”

“This is a dead end,” Adora says. “The elevators are missing.” She points to where the elevator banks ought to be. A landing has been carved out of the bedrock, but no shafts. “Let’s head back.”

They return the way they came, and emerges onto the landing to find the gondola right where they left it.

“So,” Adora says. “I say we drop a few drones down there, to scout ahead. Entrapta?”

Entrapta directs several of the small spherical things out over the abyss, and lets them fall. Visually, there’s nothing but the dark depths below. They embark the gondola one by one, and head down.

* * *

“Okay. First sexual encounter. Who, when, why. Go,” Catra says.

“Really?” Glimmer asks.

“Hey, I sat through ‘first kill,’ and you _knew_ it could potentially be someone you knew.”

Glimmer doesn’t say something like ‘good thing it wasn’t’ because in fact Catra’s first kill was a stray dog, when she was living on the street at age six. The bite she suffered in the fight put her in the hospital where she was inducted into the foster system.

“And both of them left Wrong Hordak out,” Bow points out.

“I don’t mind,” Wrong Hordak says. “I am poor in life experiences.”

“Bus boy,” Entrapta says. “At age seventeen. As an experiment.”

“What were your conclusions?” Wrong Hordak asks.

Entrapta shrugs. “That most people lie about how amazing it is. I revisited it a few years later, for the sake of completeness; with women, professionals, different races. I also gathered anecdotal evidence, and revised my conclusion to there being something different about myself. It can be nice, and I understand that it is apparently important to a wide slice of the population, but I have better things to spend my time on.”

“So you and Hordak?” Catra asks.

Entrapta looks away, smiling bittersweet. “We used to cuddle, sometimes. That was nice.”

“Okay, I’ll go next,” Glimmer says. “It was actually Bow and I. We were teens; I was what, fifteen? I didn’t want to be a totally oblivious virgin princess. It was awful.”

“Oh yeah, that was super awkward. I had just come back from my first year in the field with the ranger cadets,” Bow says. “But… That wasn’t actually mine.”

“What?!” Glimmer blurts out.

“Yeah. So, um, I don’t think I’ve ever told you about Alan. He was a fawn on exchange from Snows; I thought it was pretty much how things were supposed to be,” he says an chuckles. “What with two dads, and all.”

“Was he at least handsome?” Glimmer asks.

“We were fifteen, how handsome were any of us at that age? We ended it when he went back north. I saw him again at the Conclave, actually; met his husband-to-be.”

Glimmer nods. “Best friends since we could hold a conversation, and you never told me you had a secret ranger boyfriend for a yeah when you were fourteen.”

Bow shrugs. “Never really been pertinent. Adora, your turn.”

“For me it was you, Glimmer,” Adora says. “Never really liked boys, never really occurred to me that there were other options.”

“You really were clueless,” Glimmer says, and giggles. “I still remember the panic on your face when I kissed you the first time.”

“I didn’t know what to _think!_ ” Adora says, and laughs. “Catra, you?”

Catra pulls her legs up. “I, uh,” she says. “It was Scorpia; I had just gotten patched up after She-Ra broke my spine on the Amaranth — when we tried to abduct you from the Salinean Royal Yacht?”

“Sorry about that,” Adora says.

“No foul,” Catra says. “But… I wasn’t clueless. There’s books about it; good ones, if you know where to look. Better ones if you can fake Shadow Weaver’s signature to get access to the banned ones. She must have _know_ I was doing it, but for some reason didn’t stop me.”

“Let me get this right, you read _erotica?_ ” Glimmer asks.

“Some, yeah. I mean, the most useful ones were the more… Anatomical texts.”

“I never knew,” Adora says.

“I kept it _well_ hidden,” Catra says. “I was _crazy_ embarrassed that I had to _read_ about it, when it seemed everyone else knew what it was about. It didn’t take long before I figured out everyone else were just pretending to know.”

“What did Scorpia says?” Bow asks.

“My name, repeatedly, loudly, and interspersed with various noises,” Catra replies, dryly.

Glimmer barks with laughter.

“Okay, my turn,” Bow says. “Let’s do an easy one: most beautiful thing you ever saw? Go.”

“The Swift Wind,” Entrapta says immediately.

“The sun,” Wrong Hordak says. “When we flew above the clouds yesterday.”

“Adora,” Adora says, “that’s Mermista and Sea Hawk’s daughter,” she clarifies.

“I’m going to go with Mystacor coming to our rescue at the battle of the Ash Corridor,” Glimmer says. “I’d just stepped out from the dugout where… Where Cometa died. I looked up and there in the dawn sky was a levitating mountain raining lightning and fire down on the people responsible for her death.”

“Oh man,” Bow says, to ease the tension. “Then mine is going to sound really silly and sappy.”

“What?” Glimmer asks.

“It’s you, Glimmer. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

She blushes, hard. “Oh my goodness, don’t just say something like that so earnestly!” she squeals. “You’re going to be paying for that when we get back to the ship!”

Adora looks at Catra. “What about you?” she asks.

Catra looks at Adora, and lies. “The Northern lights,” she says. What she wants to say is: _you, when you brought me back to life._

* * *

There’s a distant twang, and for a fraction of a second, the gondola begins accelerating before the hover system kicks in, leaving them in place.

The nanotube ribbon begins collapsing down on itself.

“Shit,” Adora says.

Entrapta is on the winch immediately, and kicks it into maximum reel-in, exchanging pulling force for sheer speed. The ribbon down faster than mere free-fall can accomplish.

Adora brings out her shield and from it unfolds a protection field spanning over the open gondola. With her visor, she directs the three heavy combat drones, and the dozen lighter ones to go into full combat alertness.

“Damara?” Adora asks. “Damara, we need a portal,” she says.

No answer.

“Entrapta, can you connect to the portal engine in the camp?”

“Negative, Captain,” she says.

“Can we make it up?” Bow asks.

“Not in one go,” Entrapta says. “We’ll need to make a stop every five hundred yards or so, to let the hover drives dump heat.”

They are eleven miles down. It’s going to take them more than a day.

“It’s begun,” Catra says. “We should never have gone down here.”

“We might be able to get up quicker,” Glimmer notes, “I can put a weightlessness spell on the gondola and each of us, then we won’t have to fight gravity.”

“That could work,” Entrapta says.

“Then make it so,” Adora says. “Catra, Bow, Wrong Hordak, I want guns out.”

They tether themselves to the gondola platform, and Glimmer begins casting the weightlessness spells. They are rather more complex than the one she usually slaps on people for one-off carry trips. She draws a marker circle on the floor of the gondola, around the central winch installation, and begins marking out a complex series of equations, symbols, and something not unlike poetry.

Six minutes into the process, Adora spots a gout of sparks in the darkness above. “Light!” she says. Bow turns on a powerful torch, illuminating a half mil of the hexagonal shaft above them.

There is the tumbling form of one of the walkways high up above. Adora angles the veil of light, and Entrapta nudges the gondola to the side of the shaft. The enormous section of steel tumbles past them harmlessly.

“And now it’s actively trying to kill us,” Catra notes dryly.

“Okay,” Glimmer says. She puts a hand to the diagram on the floor.

“Load on the hover engines is decreasing,” Entrapta notes, inspecting the numbers. “Naught point eight. Naught point six. Naught point five. Point four. Point three. Stabilizing at naught point two five normal gravity.”

“Are we good?” Adora asks.

“We’re _very_ good,” Entrapta says, and with a command sends the gondola rocketing upwards.

* * *

The lower landing, leading to the large domed room has been torn off the walls. The cradle of nanotube ribbons they suspended the gondola from are still intact. Entrapta guides the gondola to come to a stop by the upper landing, and they disembark; Entrapta quickly re-tries the end of the cable on the winch drum to the cradle, and they leave it behind.

They head up through the corridors, proceeding with all due caution, retracing their steps all the way back to the elevator shaft they initially rappelled down.

“Hold on, something’s not right,” Entrapta says. “There’s seven heat signatures—”

The rear is the trio of the heavy combat drones, while Adora, Catra, and Bow make up the vanguard. They spin all of them to face Entrapta.

Entrapta looks to her left.

There, among them, is standing a figure in First-Ones’ space suit, bearing the modifications Entrapta has made to qualify it as a hazard suit. The configurable camouflage is set to black, and the visor is dark.

Three light machine guns, a fire spell, and Parabell are all leveled towards it.

Then the figure turns its visor clear.

* * *

Adora sees something she knows cannot be. There, in the black suit, is Cometa.

* * *

Bow can’t believe his eyes. It’s Wolfclaw, his old ranger captain.

* * *

Entrapta’s mind conjures a dozen objections in an instant to the apparent fact that Hordak is standing right there.

* * *

Glimmer sees Angella.

* * *

Wrong Hordak sees on of his brothers, and he _knows_ it is one of those that had to die for his new friends to escape.

* * *

Catra raises her gun and pumps the thing full of holographic bullets.

It convulses, falls over, and dissolves into black smoke and yellow motes of magic.

“All right everyone, look alive,” she says, “we’re in mind-fuck territory.”

“Entrapta, keep an eye on our heat signatures,” Adora says. “Good call, Catra.”

“What _was_ that?” Glimmer asks. “It looked like my mom.”

“I think it looked like people we’ve lost,” Bow says.

“Who did you see?” Adora asks Catra.

Catra doesn’t answer. She didn’t see anyone in particular. She saw herself, the girl she once was, who had nothing but raw ambition. She saw the Adora, the six foot tall lithe girl she grew up with, who no longer exists. She saw the false Shadow Weaver from the Portal reality; the one who actually loved her. She saw the amalgamation of every soldier who has ever died under her command.

* * *

The trip up the elevator shaft is harrowing, even though Adora sends the combat drones up to guard the landing, with orders to shoot anyone who isn’t the six of them in particular, ensuring nobody cuts the wires.

They make it to the main chamber, to their camp.

Ripped pressure tents, destroyed machinery and vehicles.

The point defense turrets have blown off their muzzle covers, and have all received a claw swipe as thanks.

“Oh no, this is bad,” Entrapta says.

“Damara, come in,” Adora tries. “Damara! Adora to Swift Wind! Come in!”

No answer.

“Leave this,” she says. “We need to get outside and get visuals on Swift Wind.”

They run. Up the entrance corridor, through the hole Catra cut, out of the cave onto the gravelly mountain side.

It’s gone.

“ _Shit!_ ” Adora yells.

“There’s the possibility she escaped,” Bow suggests. “At least we aren’t looking at its wreckage.”

“I see it!” Wrong Hordak exclaims, and points.

They all turn to see and indeed there, on the sky, is the bluish-silver silhouette of the Swift Wind, approaching them, coming in at cruising speeds.

“Everybody, weapons ready,” Catra says. “This might be a trick.”

The craft comes in on approach, slowing, coming directly for them. The point defense prism turrets are extended, and there is definitely a shallow claw mark across the belly of the ship.

“ _Get in!_ ” Damara’s voice sounds from the external speakers, as the craft comes to a stop, hovering, and extends a landing pylon, which touches down in front of them, elevator doors open.

The hairs stand on end on Catra’s neck. “Stop!” she says. “Something’s wrong!”

And then it becomes apparent.

Three sets of heavy footfalls sound out, and they all look to their source.

A predatory creature, almost black in the dim light, its mane a billowing deep starfield, its eyes and teeth glowing blue. Gigantic.

It leaps onto the Swift Wind. The point defense systems fire, and the asteroid-vaporizing ray cannon shots glance harmlessly off its hide, before it lands, claws gouging into the exterior hull. It is nearly half the size of the Swift Wind: two hundred yards from nose to the tip of its whip-like tail; a tail which which casually swipes through two of the turrets, sending shards of crystal flying into the far distance. It moves with none of the plodding slowness its bulk should imply.

Adora leaps into the air, and starlight erupts from her, bathing the twilit mountain side in direct sunlight. She lands in a dead run on the tail-end of the crafts’ rear hull, sprinting at the creature, Parabell in her hand growing into a thirty foot lance.

Before it can even be illuminated, the creature darts into Swift Wind’s shadow, the weight of it leaving the hull causing the craft’s hover system to briefly overcompensate.

Rather than attempt to chase the nimble creature, Adora hurls Parabell, which goes curving around the Swift Wind chasing the creature faster than the eye can see.

But the creature is already on top of the craft again, and a gigantic paw strikes Adora from the side and sends her rocketing through the air as if shot from a cannon, hitting the ground hard and rolling over, and over, and onto her feet. Stella Nova by her side having handily protected her from instant death.

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Adora says. The creature leaps onto the ground, and approaches her with interest.

Adora summons a dozen blades, growing them to lances and spears, ten feet long, twenty, thirty, blades widening and forking out.

It stops, hesitating.

“Yeah, you better be afraid,” Adora says.

The looks over at the pylon, where the others are gathered.

“Oh _no_ you don’t,” Adora says, and with a gesture, sends the swarm of vorpal instruments more suited to taking out battleships, after the creature.

It sets off with preternatural swiftness for the others, and as it leaps directly over them, the whip-like tail lashes out and grabs Catra. Parabell chases after it like a barrage of missiles, but the beast leaps behind a boulder smaller than itself, and her blades sunder the rock, revealing nothing.

“ _No!_ ” Adora screams.


	16. Melog, Recalcitrant

Catra lands in the gravel, hard, and immediately flips her visor up to vomit on the ground. Her mind races to make sense of what she was just pulled through and comes up blank, anxious, and thoroughly disoriented.

There’s a growl above her, and she turns to see the gigantic predator, looming over her.

She scrabbles backwards, yelping, and manages to draw her rifle and bring it to bear.

A lightning fast claw swipe with surgical precision knocks the weapon out of her hands and almost breaks her trigger finger. Thinking fast, Catra instead draws her Parabell.

The creature hesitates.

  
**_WHY_ **   


Catra reels, her head rings like a bell, the word — if it even is a word — drowning out her thoughts completely.

“Why what?!” she yells.

  
**_Eternia. Grayskull. Pain. Binding. No. Anger. Cunning. Stalk. Kill. Destroy. You. Bird. Now._ **   


Catra clutches her head. She creams under the barrage. Then it ends, and she is out of breath. Her hands scrabble for the sword, and she brings it back to the beast. It bares blue fangs larger than her entire body.

“What, why we came here in a First-Ones’ ship? They’re all dead is why! We stole it!”

  
**_LIE._ **   


The psychic blow bowls her over.

  
**_Light. Swords. Human. Goddess. Eternia._ **   


“Yeah, Adora is — look, I swear, we’re not with them! Please don’t eat me!”

  
**_You. Child. Inedible. Marked. Green. Evil. Horde. Fire. Sky. Clone. Pink. Why. Why. Why._ **   


A trickle of blood runs from Catra’s nose. She’s dizzy. “You’re not—” she wipes it away. The memory of the brain bug — the sanitizing wasp — crawls into her mind. “He… He took me. Against my will. I killed who knows how many. Wrong Hordak, he’s not with Prime either; he’s rebelling.”

The creature relents on its snarl.

  
**_Lonely. Dead. You. Return. Why. Where._ **   


“We need your help, I think,” she slurs. “I— I don’t… I don’t feel so good.”

The beast’s snarl subsides, and it tilts its head. It comes close to her, sniffing. Its enormous snout gently brushes against Catra’s arm, and it makes a gentle rumbling noise.

  
**_Safe. Sleep._ **   


Catra loses consciousness.

* * *

Adora tortures her speeder, pushing the powerful hover engine to the limits of how fast it can make the light craft fly. The lodestone tracker on the dashboard shows her Catra’s location, on the other side of the mountain.

“ _Please, please, please,_ ” she mutters under her breath.

Hot on her tail is over fifty long lances of Parabell; Stella Nova sits across the front of the speeder’s handlebars, protecting her, if not the control surfaces out in front.

Her curving path across the gravel plains finally brings the hind side of the mountain into view, and she sees the beast. Her visor magnifies, and there, on the ground, lies Catra.

Still.

Adora hits the booster function, and a pair of jet engines kick on, giving her that extra bit of speed. She hops off the footrests on the still moving vehicle, grabs her shield, puts a foot on the cross bar between the handles, and leaps forward.

The gigantic beast turns to face her, but she is going much too fast.

Adora impacts it, shield-on, and in a burst of starlight, her momentum wins against the two hundred foot beast.

It is thrown back, instantly and impossibly accelerated to the speed she came in with, tumbling down the mountain side, sliding on the loose gravel. The fifty battle-ship-killing magical lances continue after it at blistering pace.

Adora lands right by Catra, and rushes to her side. Still breathing. A stream of blood running from her nose. Laying a hand on her cheek, Adora lets starlight flow into her. Too much and too fast, but it doesn’t matter.

Catra jerks awake, reinvigorated beyond reason. “Adora!”

“Catra!” Adora says. “Take the speeder and get out of here! I’ll keep it occupied!”

“Wait!” Catra says, but Adora is already running off, long legs pumping like engine pistons, gravel flying. Superhuman speed in execution.

The monster is curving around down the mountain side, chased by her blades, but somehow manages to evade them every time they come close.

In her hand, Adora conjures a long, wide, and powerful blade of Parabell; as light as a feather to her touch.

The beast comes up to meet her, and she jumps into a somersault, landing with the blade tip slamming into the ground.

An explosion of light emanates from it, stopping the beast dead in its tracks, weaving radiant energies throughout a vast tract of land, forming an arena, half a mile across.

The fifty gigantic swords pursuing the beast shatter into shards, forming into swords like the one she’s carrying; thousands of them. They distribute themselves around the edge of the arena, enclosing it like a dome.

Adora draws the large sword from the ground and holds it out in front of her, point facing the monster.

The light under its paws sizzle and burn, but the monster cares not. It begins circling Adora, growling.

“Come one, you big stupid coward,” Adora jeers. “See how you like this,” she twirls her Parabell.

It snarls, curls up to pounce, and sets off, closing the distance in vast steps one, two, three—

The speeder rockets between them, and Catra lands in a roll, standing and holding out a hand towards the beast, and towards Adora.

“ _Stop!_ ” she screams.

The monster stems all four paws against, sending gravel flying as it slides to a stop.

“Catra?” Adora says.

“This is all a misunderstanding,” Catra says. “I— I don’t think there’s reason to fight.”

“It _took you,_ it tried to _kill us!_ ” Adora protests. “It nearly _destroyed Swift Wind!_ ”

“Put your sword away,” Catra says.

Adora hesitates.

“Do it _now,_ ” Catra hisses.

The sword in Adora’s hand dematerializes; she keeps the blade wall up, and relents on the burning light in the arena floor.

Catra turns to the beast. Pushing down her primal fear of it, she steps forward, hand outstretched. “Please; we’re not your enemy.”

And then, the beast shrinks, down from its titanic size, to merely the size of a magical beast that could wrestle with the largest monsters on Etheria.

Its hide lightens to a deep, cool brown, and its billowing mane grows less turbulent.

It bumps its snout against Catra’s hand, and closes its eyes.

Catra rubs her hand back and forth on its smooth short fur. It makes a quiet rumbling noise in response.

“Are… Are you petting the thing that’s been trying to kill us?”

“Shut _up!_ ” Catra hisses. “I’m _trying_ something, you belligerent idiot!”

Adora recoils with a start. One by one the wall of blades enclosing the arena wink out.

The beast’s eyes open, shining menacingly blue, and the rumble becomes a growl as it stares directly at Adora.

Adora takes a step back, hand reaching for her shield. “You sure about this, Cat?”

Catra shooshes it. “Hey, hey it’s okay big girl; boy? Whatever you are,” she says, “yeah, I’m sure; and I could _do_ without the _commentary!_ ”

“Sorry, sorry… Do your thing. I— I’ll just be ready to get us the fuck out of here if things go south, okay?”

Catra nods.

Then she takes off her helmet, releasing it by two buttons under the chin, and tossing it over her shoulder — Adora catches it.

“What’s your name?” she asks the beast. “And try to be… Quiet, if you can.”

  
_Melog._   


“Their name is Melog,” Catra says. “What are you?”

  
_Light. Swords. Human. Goddess._   


“What about Adora?”

  
_Am. Krytis._   


“I don’t understand, are you saying you’re… The defender of Krytis, like She-Ra?”

Melog makes a little noise; an audible one. It sits down, and then lies down, folding its paws with regal grace.

  
_Lonely. Friend. You._   


The earnestness flusters Catra. “You— you think I’m your friend? No, no, listen, I’m not a very good friend; I— All I do is hurt people, I don’t—”

“Catra,” Adora says. “You are a _good_ friend. To me; to all of us.”

Catra turns to look at Adora. She has removed her helmet, and her golden ponytail is flowing easily in the wind. Warmth rises to Catra’s cheeks.

  
_Friend._   


Melog nudges its great big snout into Catra’s side with insistent gentleness.

“Okay, you two, I get it,” Catra says.

Adora walks up to Catra, slowly, and Melog leans over a little to watch her approach. Coming to a stop, Adora reaches out with a gloved hand.

“Close your eyes,” Catra says.

Adora does. Then she feels Melog bump against her palm. “Can it— can they, talk? It seems like you’re having a conversation.”

“You can’t—? I mean, it’s not exactly talking. But yeah.”

  
_Adora. Human. Goddess. Chosen. Protect._   


“Yeah, Adora is She-Ra,” Catra says. “We’re from a place called Etheria. It’s her destiny, or something, to protect it.”

“It’s not going so well,” Adora adds. “Horde Prime is there.”

Melog snorts.

  
_Evil. Prime. Coward. Feeble. Lie. Melog. Strong. True._   


“Yeah, you’re not a fan of him either, are you?”

  
_Bored._   


Melog rises, and begins to trot off. She looks to the sky, and as if by their leave, the cloud cover begins parting, and letting through a ray of sunlight that falls on Catra and Adora.

“Hey, wait,” Catra says, and jogs after them. “There’s forests, on Etheria. Do— do you miss that?”

Melog looks back at her.

  
_Sad._   


“You could come with us.”

  
_Krytis. Home._   


“But it’s empty,” Catra says.

  
_Recover. Grow. Slow. Slow._   


“I’m one of your people, aren’t I?”

  
_Child._   


There’s such love in that single notion, that Catra almost starts crying.

“There’s a lot of… Of us, out there —” she points to the sky “— We’re not dead; I just think most of them don’t know there even is a planet with our name on it. If… If you come with us — come with me — then we can tell them?”

  
_Hope._   


“Yeah, you haven’t had that for a while, have you?”

Melog turns, and walks back to Catra, gently bumping its forehead against her.

Catra mirrors the gesture, putting her forehead against the warm wall of fur, skin and bone that is Melog’s pate.

“ _Adora, adora come in!_ ” Glimmer says, panicked in Adora’s earpiece.

“Glimmer?”

“ _We’re coming to get you; we have a plan; don’t say anything._ ”

“Glimmer, we’re okay, everything is fine. Catra is—”

“ _Listen to me, that entity has been jamming out communications with Damara, and she’s been recieving transmissions spoofed to sound like us ever since we went into the shaft. I can’t trust anything you’re saying._ ”

“Glimmer, look up.”

“ _What?_ ”

Adora holds a hand skyward, and channels her starlight: a powerful narrow beam of it illuminating the underside of the clouds already beginning to dissipate. Then she begins flashing it in dots and dashes:

_ALL OK_

“See that?”

“ _Yeah. Okay, that was your starlight, no doubt about it._ ”

“Stay put, we’re coming to you.”

Adora saunters over to the speeder, in the middle distance, it’s passive hover mode having kept it upright. “Catra, you coming?”

Catra is scratching Melog behind the ear. “I think Melog wants me to… Ride.”

Melog lies down flat in the gravel, and Catra climbs up. Melog stands, putting Catra a good fifteen feet off the ground.

Adora mounts the speeder and glides up beside them. She throws Catra’s helmet back up to her. “Safety first.” She puts her own helmet on as well.

Catra dons hers, and the artificial ears spring to life.

“It’s really cute on you, that helmet.”

“I am _not_ cute,” Catra says.

“Lies.”

Catra growls. Melog turns its head up to look at her with one brilliantly blue eye.

“Urgh! Let’s just go.”

* * *

Melog makes good time, on long slow galloping strides, gliding impossibly far with each leap, effortlessly matching the cruising pace of Adora’s speeder.

They round the mountain and the sun starts gracing the land around them with its warm afternoon rays. There, up by the entrance to the underground complex, is the Swift Wind, hovering. Adora turns uphill, and Melog follows.

As they approach, the others come running; Glimmer, Bow, Entrapta, and Wrong Hordak, come out to meet them.

Melog stops at a respectful distance, turning side-on, in a display of its stature. Catra scratches them between their powerful shoulders. “Hey; we all know you’re imposing. No need for that.”

Adora dismounts, just in time for Glimmer to come gliding and wrap her in a tight hug. “Don’t you _ever_ just run off like that again!” she scolds.

“In my defense, I’m more powerful now than I have ever been,” Adora says. She looks at Bow, Entrapta, and Wrong Hordak, holding a respectful distance to the fifteen-feet tall predator.

“Everyone,” Catra says, “this is Melog.” She lets herself slide off Melog’s back, and with a small hop, drops down, landing hard to the sound of protesting servos. “It’s quite safe, they’re a big softie, really.”

Melog shrinks down further, becoming merely horse-sized, and scuttles up behind Catra.

“What, are you _shy_ now, all of a sudden?” Catra asks, as Melog tries to poke its head under her arm.

Bow braves it, and approaches. “Hey there,” he says, gently, and crouches down. He removes his helmet, and one glove, holding out a bare hand towards Melog.

Melog squeezes past Catra, who squeaks from the push, and gently sniffs Bow’s hand. The snorts, and retreats behind Catra again.

“For something that just tried to kill us, that is pretty cute,” Bow says.

“It’s even cuter that it’s latched on to our cutest crew member,” Adora says.

“I am. _Not. Cute!_ ” Catra says, raising her voice.

Melog growls.

“Whoa, hey!” Catra immediately pivots into consoling them. “Sorry I got angry, it’s something I’m working on,” she says quietly to them, gently stroking Melog’s cheek.

“Aw, you are?” Adora says.

Catra looks up to see Adora, almost touched to tears.

“Yeah, Adora,” she says, “but it’s not like there’s been an abundance of frustrations for me to blow up over; either, so…”

Melog perks up, then trots over to Wrong Hordak.

“Melog, hey, he’s okay, he’s with us!” Catra says.

Melog stares him down for a moment. Then snorts in Wrong Hordak’s face, and trots back to Catra.

Adora looks to Entrapta. “Do you want to say hi too?”

“Animals make me nervous,” Entrapta says.

“You wanted to dissect Glory,” Adora shoots back.

“My fascination with the possibility of a biological portal engine outweighed my nervousness in that particular case.”

“So,” Glimmer says, “what _is_ Melog?”

“Krytis’ version of She-Ra,” Adora says, “or something like that.”

“That explains why it could pick a fight with Swift Wind,” Glimmer notes.

Adora pushes Glimmer forward. “Go say hi.”

She does.

Adora heads over to Entrapta. “How is she?” she ask, looking up and over at the Swift Wind.

“We’ll need to do some repairs,” Entrapta says. “There’s damage to the outer hull, point defense is down two turrets, there’s some infrastructure damage, and the superstructure needs a full inspection… Uh…”

“What?”

“Fabrication took a hit… _Somehow._ I’m down to the backup device in the vehicle bay. I can get her space-worthy in a few days, but if you want me to get her back to full operational capacity, that’s going to take maybe two weeks.”

Adora frowns.

* * *

Melog is only a little reluctant to board the Swift Wind, but relents when all its new friends — and especially Catra — boards without them. They obediently shrink down to a size small enough to sit on Catra’s shoulder.

They head to the changing rooms, discarding hazard suits, and wiping down with sanitary towels. With the central fabricator and recycling refinery down, water recycling is a premium service. No warm showers.

Fortunately, Glimmer’s meal prep madness means they have real food to eat; as well as a stockpile of MRE packets. Melog gets a seat on the table, and Catra feeds it little bits of fish, carefully removing the crust of breadcrumbs.

“I’m not sure how I feel about having that thing aboard so soon after it tried to kill me,” Damara says.

“Melog is sorry,” Catra says without looking up. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

“Everyone, if I can have your attention,” Adora says, nursing a cold beer. “We’re going to be stuck here for a while, it seems. Entrapta says she might be able to patch us up and get us out of here quickly, but I am not happy about taking that risk.”

“Prudent,” Damara notes.

“But I am also not happy with the time table on the full repairs. So here’s what we’re going to do: from today, until we’re ready for takeoff, this is Entrapta and Damara’s ship. Whatever they say, we do. Whatever help they need, we provide.”

She looks at the other four, each in turn: Wrong Hordak, Catra, Glimmer, and Bow.

“We are all of us smart, capable, and crafty people, with various levels of technical familiarity. If we don’t know _how_ to do something, the simulation room is down a level, and the onboard library probably has two or three how-to books. Are we clear?”

There’s a round of nods. “Now, I’m not saying we should overwork ourselves; I’m going to be mandating regular breaks, strict bedtimes, and mandatory recesses. I want _continued_ high output, and _high quality_ repair work. No benders, no all-nighters, and — once I’m done with this beer here — no alcohol.”

There’s a round of ’Yes, captain.’s.

“And Catra, you’re going to be in charge of Melog’s well-being; if you have to choose between repairs and Melog, choose Melog. Understood?”

“Yes, captain,” Catra says.

“Good. Let’s eat, take an hour off to get our bearings, then we’re going to clear out what’s left of the base camp back there, and find a flat spot to land.”

* * *

Melog is surprisingly content to help, and convinces Catra to fit them with an improvised saddle to help carry the wreckage of the base camp. The several tons of equipment all came from the fabricator, after all, and needs to go back in the recycler once it is operational again.

By nightfall, Bow takes the helm and lands Swift Wind on a stretch of flat ground in the valley below.

Come curfew, Bow and Glimmer retire to their new quarters in one of the slightly larger couples’ suites, with room for two beds — or a double in this case — a separate study, and a more accommodating bathroom.

Adora goes to bed, and lies awake for a while, until it becomes apparent that Catra isn’t going to join her.

* * *

In the morning, Glimmer and Damara start the extensive work of inspecting the chassis superstructure that is Swift Wind’s spine, through a combination of improvised tracking spells, internal diagnostics, and measurement devices.

Adora, Wrong Hordak, Bow, and Entrapta go to work, patching the damaged outer hull panels and inspect the damages underneath. There are dozens of heavy sections of armor to mend — mostly to keep rain and debris out.

It’s a relief to be able to work outside without being confined to a full circulating hazard suit. Natural ventilation just beats even the best air conditioning.

Melog takes Catra for a ride, up the mountain.

“Hey, are we going underground again?” Catra asks, as they head up to the cave with the entrance. Rather than squeeze through the hole Catra cut, Melog does… _Something_ … And then they are on the other side of the door and Catra is disoriented.

It feels the same as when they leapt behind the boulder and emerged on the other side of the mountain, except less extreme.

Melog trots down the dark hallway, and as the oxygen levels decrease, Catra’s visor flips down on its own accord and her suit turns on re-breathing.

Melog heads over the landing where they used to have base camp and to the open elevator doors. Catra holds on to Melog’s mane which despite its smoke-like appearance is quite like flowing hair, and Melog bounds down the elevator shaft, bouncing from wall to wall.

From there, they take her down corridors she has walked before, down stairs and sloping hallways, through maze-like branching network of steel-lined tunnels, until finally they emerge into the central shaft.

“We’re going down?” Catra asks.

Melog makes an assenting kind of noise. Then it leaps off the balcony, and Catra holds on for dear life, as they plummet. Melog aims themself downwards, diving like a hawk.

“Are you sure about this?!” Catra yells.

  
_Safe._   


They fall like that for a _long time._ The repetitive motion of the hexagonal shaft’s section passing in the pale blue light of Melog’s eyes is enough to lull Catra almost into a trance.

* * *

And then they aren’t diving into the belly of the planet, but flying over the battlefield of the invasion. The vast deserts of Krytis.

Under them the sands are splayed out in bands of alternating colors, red and black and beige, and as Melog flies over them, its hide and fur change color with the passing of the dunes, in a mad strobe-like effect.

Spires are coming down, braking their descent on fusion engines, and drop-ships are disgorging legions of clone soldiers in white armor with grey guns.

The Krytisians, the Magicats, the feliform natives, fight back with speeders and holographic bullets; shoot dropships out of the sky with gravitron beams; fight for aerial supremacy in sleek silver planes.

But the clones are as numerous as the sand grains they stand on.  


* * *

And then the sky becomes overcast, and bright of day becomes twilight. The sky is red at night with reflections of the fires on land.

As they fly over the frozen tundra, Melog grows under her, into their gigantic war form, and they leap out of the shadows and onto a spire, sundering the enormous structure in a single claw-swipe.

A dropship loads up its cargo of armored vehicles, fighter jets, and infantry clones, and Melog falls upon it, claws opening the hull like a knife opens a can, ripping the delicate power core out, which explodes harmlessly against Melog’s invulnerable skin, obliterating the craft.

Behind them, a small army falls upon Melog and all they do to retaliate is turn towards the approaching thousand strong clones, and with a single look of their evil eyes, every single clone turns his rifle on himself. A thousand bodies in an instant; killing intent turned on its owners.

Then, the fire begins raining from the sky.

Tears come to Catra’s eyes.  


* * *

And then the land becomes barren, and the strife of life becomes the quiet of the grave. The sky is clear and there is no-one to bask in the sun.

They fly over the dead world, for hundreds of years. When the first lichens finally begin to grow, it is a triumph greater than any victory over Prime; such hope, that one day Krytis will again be lush, or at least livable, and _they_ will come from the sky again.

Not because they were ever kind, the magic thieves, but because they were _someone._

Loneliness is the deadliest poison of the all.  


* * *

And then they fall.

One can’t wipe one’s eyes with a helmet on. Catra holds on to Melog’s mane, so hard her fingers go numb. “I can’t imagine what it was like,” she says, “but I know how you feel, now.”

* * *

And then in ancient times, the land lay covered in forests, where throughout ages dwelt magic, dwelt dreams and dwelt spirits.

Back then, the children and the beasts lived in harmony, and of that Harmony, a union. Of beast and of child.

The child, _Melanchola_ , the beast, nameless as all beasts are.

But as time went on, the children grew clever and greedy, and _Melanchola_ was long forgotten, a legacy passed on, their name warped by tongues unfamiliar. _Melanch. Melange. Meloch._

Most of the great forests were destroyed, and the rich soil under root became barren sand. The children grew few, and hardy.

* * *

And then they fall.

“But they… We… My ancestors destroyed Krytis themselves? Why did you let them?”

  
_Child. Love. Forest. Place. Desert. Adapt._   


Catra thinks on that for a long time, as the still-thickening air rushes past them. “To stop them, you would have had to fight them. Right?”

  
_Never. Protect._   


“So you let them hurt their home, hurt you, because you loved them.”

Catra mulls on that, staring into the star field of Melog’s mane.

“That’s what we do, right? Let ourselves get hurt for the sake of those we… Love.”

And then, Melog pivots in the air, splaying its legs and tail, braking on the air, slowing down enough to comfortably land at the bottom of the shaft, with a gigantic gust of air.

Catra hops down, but finds herself tumbling into the middle distance. She’s sore from the long ride, but feels light, floaty even. It is very hot down here, too; without her hazard suit she’d be suffering heat stroke now.

A line runs over the entire floor of the shaft; a joining of two panels — a gate.

There, off to the side of the shaft, inlaid in the steel gate floor is a hatch.

Opening it reveals a deep manhole shaft below, and unfolds a ladder. Catra mounts the ladder and begins her descent. Melog follows. Each rung of the ladder leaves her lighter, until she is basically pushing herself along, feet first.

The narrow access shaft falls away in favor of a gigantic cavity. A walkway hangs ‘below’ Catra, and she pushes off the ladder towards it, finding it to have artificial gravity.

The darkness is deep, and Catra’s helmet light doesn’t reach far, as they walk.

“The heart of the planet,” Catra mutters.

They walk for a long time, before reaching the destination. Around them, the darkness relents, being gradually replaced by something that isn’t light.

And then Catra sees it. A gigantic mass of magic; intricately woven. Patterns inside patterns inside patterns inside patterns. Geometries she can’t comprehend, and power unimaginable.

But it is all… Twisted. Writhing. Alive. Cancerous. Weak. Feeble.

It’s intended function unable to be fulfilled; the stock from which it was wrought unsuitable to its construction.

Leaky.

Wisps of power emanate from it, latching on to Melog.

  
_Thieves._   


“The First-Ones did this,” Catra says.

  
_Melog. Beast. Cause._   


“I don’t understand,” Catra says.

  
_Broke. Escape. Prison. Sustains._   


“They imprisoned you in it? But… It sustains you?”

Melog makes a noise of agreement, looking up at the Heart.

  
_Destroy._   


“What?”

  
_Destroy. Please._   


“I don’t know how,” Catra says. “but— what happens to you, then?”

  
_Comfortable. Hole. Dark. Forever._   


“You— you’ll die?”

  
_Long. Long. Alone. End. Boredom._   


“No! We need you to defeat Prime!” Catra says. “You’re supposed to come with us to Etheria; there’s forests there, and lots of feliforms like me!”

  
_You. Fly. Beast. Stay. Melog. Follow._   


“I—” the words die in Catra’s throat.

Melog looks at her. They are now no larger than her, sitting there, facing the monstrous device keeping them alive.

“I’ll have to tell the others. I’ll need their help.”


	17. Hard Work, Dark World

It is dark evening before Catra returns to the Swift Wind, with a heavy heart, riding Melog.

She dismounts in the shadow of the craft, and Melog hops onto her shoulder. She heads up the elevator, and shrugs off her hazard-exoskeleton suit in the changing room.

“Damara, where is everybody?”

“ _Strategy meeting in the control center._ ”

Catra heads there, with Melog trotting along behind her. She’s starting to get her old strength back, but having Melog sitting on her shoulder, even being a small as they can be, is tiring.

The doors slide apart, revealing the control center with a circle of hover chairs.

“— It’s a wonder that we didn’t have a structural failure right then and there,” Damara says, “the fatigue is that severe.”

“So in other words, repairing the fabricator just moved up,” Adora notes, “so we can manufacture a replacement… All right that’ll be priority number one tomorrow. I get the impression it is going to be a major undertaking to replace the nacelle spar.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Entrapta says, “it would be easier to do it in orbit, but seeing as we can’t fly, we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

“Hey,” Catra says.

They all turn to look at her.

“What seems to burden you, sister?” Wrong Hordak says.

Catra heads in, ears drooping, tail wrapping around her legs, and takes a seat.

“Where did you and Melog go?” Adora asks.

“We, uh… We went down the shaft. To the bottom. To the Heart.”

There’s a moment of deathly silence.

Melog hops up on Catra’s lap, and curls up.

“I took pictures, and measurements with my suit, Damara can fetch those; I— I need your help. _Melog_ needs _our_ help, to destroy it.”

Entrapta turns to Damara. “Would you—?”

“Already on it,” Damara says.

“Okay?” Adora says. “That sounds straight forward?”

Catra shakes her head. She pets Melog. “Destroying the heart is going to let Krytis finally heal. But it… It’s also going to kill Melog.”

“But we need them,” Adora says. “Or what? To fight Prime?”

Catra looks up at Adora. “Ad, you don’t understand, Melog _wants_ to die. They aren’t going to come with us anyway; they never were. They can’t even leave Krytis, the Heart is what keeps them alive. Whatever fuck-up the First-Ones made when they tried to bend Krytis’ magic to their will, it just gave Melog physical form instead.”

“I don’t understand,” Adora says.

“I don’t either,” Catra admits. “I’m just going by what my friend tells me, okay?” She wipes a tear away with the back of her hand.

Adora rests her face in her palms for a moment. “Entrapta, Damara, at first blush, what are we looking at?”

“I’m going to load some better measurement gear onto a drone,” Entrapta says, “then we’ll send that down there, overnight, to get some better data.”

“We can’t draw anything like a conclusion based on this,” Damara says.

“Melog,” Adora says. “Can you wait for a few days?”

Melog sits up in Catra’s lap and looks at Adora. It makes a small two-syllable-like noise. Then it turns to Catra, and snuggles up to her.

* * *

Catra goes to sleep on top of Melog’s curled-up form. She got Wrong Hordak to help her move the bed out. She thinks of Entrapta’s drone heading down to the core of the planet, and hopes it’ll bring back the data they need.

The night before, Melog got the foot end of her bed, and Catra had to tuck her knees up; how Adora did that every night without being in constant pain is a mystery.

Melog breathes slowly, under her. Big and warm, and very much shaped like a friend. There’s a lump in her throat. She’ll be damned if she lets this beautiful creature go, at least without first getting to experience the good things in life one last time.

* * *

It is an _incredible_ amount of work to change all the damaged cabling and piping under the exterior hull, but Entrapta and Damara are pretty certain it’ll fix at least one of the problems with the fabricator; and if not, at least rule out a host of easy-to-fix issues and restoring redundancy. The backup-systems beneath the inner hull are picking up the slack, but in turn they have become essential.

“Have you seen Catra?” Adora asks.

“Yeah,” Bow says. “She’s out wandering the dunes.” From their vantage point atop the Swift Wind’s starboard engine nacelle, they can see pretty far; Bow scouts the horizon.

He spots the little red figure and the dark silhouette of a four-legged animal on top of a dune of dark sand in the far distance. “There,” he says, pointing.

Adora looks their way. “She didn’t say a word during breakfast. I think she’s really broken up about Melog.”

“I know a bit of what it’s like,” Bow says.

“You do?”

“I don’t remember Alexandria at all; or my birth mother, but I’ve often thought I ought to visit, one day, when the war ends. Even if it is all just ashes and rubble.”

“Oh. Yeah. Now that you say it, I’ve thought about that too, when I found out I was a First-One, but then I found Swift Wind, so…”

“It must hurt, to find the only living link to your lost heritage, and then they just want you to help them commit suicide,” Bow mutters. He turns away. “Man, I never imagined I’d feel sorry for Catra, of all people.”

“Nothing brings people together like a common enemy,” Adora says.

“I sincerely hope Catra isn’t just hanging out with us because of Horde Prime,” Bow says, and chuckles. "

Adora blushes. “Yeah, what am I saying. Let’s get back to work, we’re wasting daylight.”

* * *

Glimmer runs the dousing rods over every inch of the port nacelle bridge; though every connecting corridor and maintenance access. The nacelle spar here is the one that needs replacing, so the current theory is that whatever damaged the huge beam of composite materials, might have caused any number of problems in the bridging area as well.

Wrong Hordak follows her with a tablet, showing schematics in real time, and noting every anomaly Glimmer detects.

“What is it like, your home?”

Glimmer looks back at him. “Why do you ask?”

“I—” Wrong Hordak pauses. “I suppose I am curious. I’ve never had the opportunity to experience planetary life; indeed I never had the opportunity to experience much life at all.”

“I tend to forget that you’re virtually a newborn,” Glimmer says. “You’re very competent compared to most people who have been breathing air for only a handful of days.”

She puts the two bent metal rods together and puts them under her belt, wiggling her fingers to get rid of the kink the awkward grip on them has given her.

“Thank you. All us clones are taught a host of useful skills in-utero… As well as a lot of lies.” He says the last part with edge in his voice.

“Etheria is beautiful,” Glimmer says. “At least the parts of it I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot. Not to knock Krytis — I’m sure it was majestic once, and might be again one day, but — it’s nothing like this vast black desert.”

Wrong Hordak nods.

“I used to live in a huge white palace. The turrets were magnificent in the morning sun, when we came marching home, and we were welcomed through the city gates at the sound of silver trumpets. And even then, the best part was always the people. Diverse. Strong. Kind. And then there was the forest, oh Bow loves that place; we used to go there whenever I could. Huge trees as far as the eye could see, so full of life, so full of wonder.”

Glimmer shakes her head. “I’m no poet, and even then poetry can’t really do those things justice.”

“I should like to see it one day,” Wrong Hordak says.

“You might, soon,” Glimmer says.

“Yeah.”

“Any other questions, while we take a little break anyway?”

“You and brother Bow; I understand you are very fond of one another, but it seems there is something deeper to your bond that mere fondness?”

Glimmer nods. “I love him. I suppose I always have. And he, I.”

“Love?”

“Oh goodness, not you as well. I think Damara might be better able to explain it to you; I’m no poet, again.”

“Pardon my curiosity,” Wrong Hordak says.

“No need; but yes, I _am_ very fond of Bow. I don’t think I have ever been as fond of anyone as I am of him, and if I can, I am going to spend the rest of my life with him. And he feels the same of me. We will in all likelihood be very happy for a very long time.”

Wrong Hordak smiles. “I am very happy for you.”

“Thank you, Wrong Hordak.”

Wrong Hordak frowns.

“Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking, it is strange that you have given me that name. Wrong Hordak. Entrapta mistook me for her husband. I am not he, to be sure, but I shouldn’t be defined by that fact alone.”

“What do you want to be called?”

“I don’t know yet.”

* * *

They chase the fabricator malfunction for an entire day, five people and one personality construct, gradually ruling out more and more esoteric errors, and narrowing the fault down until it requires creative thinking to come up with how the huge machinery is even malfunctioned.

Eventually, with barely an hour left to go before mandatory bed time, Entrapta narrows down the fault to a misaligned critical component, of which the misalignment detector and integrated calibration tool somehow got misaligned as well, leading to an all-clear diagnostic and auto-calibration check, but a catastrophic cascading error.

“Damara, hand me the optical calipers and the micron adjustment screw,” Entrapta says, looking at the cylindrical crystal, nestled in the bowels of the huge collection of machinery that is below the main fabrication plate.

Damara wordlessly hands her the two tools.

Entrapta carefully takes over a dozen measurements, reading the numbers aloud to Damara, who checks them against references in the database; then Damara reads the adjustments back to Entrapta, who uses a set of strong but gentle clamps to hold the work in place while using the incredibly fine adjustment screw to push the crystal and its attached machinery back in place.

“Running test.” In her eye-tracking visor, she runs the self-diagnostic, calibration check, and final error-detection.

All green.

Damara climbs up the manhole access, to let Entrapta scoot out of of the confines she has crawled into. She climbs up, and Damara offers her a hand, which she takes with a smile broadening on her face.

“Shall we try it?” Damara asks.

“No; we should check the refinery and recycler for similar problems, in fact we should check basically everything on the ship; or at least the final error-detection systems first, then run _those._ That said…”

Entrapta lets out a triumphant cackle, as if she has been holding it in. “We _did it!_ We’re not gonna die!” In a leap, she embraces Damara, her momentum driving them into a spin together, and then by impulse, Entrapta kisses her on the lips.

Damara is surprised, but doesn’t mind.

Entrapta pulls back, smiling, dreamy-eyed, then her elation turns to stark realization, and she lets go as if shocked. “Oh no! Oh, I am so, so sorry; I don’t know what came over he.”

“I really don’t mind, Entrapta,” Damara says.

“But I’m married! What would Hordak think?! I can’t just go around kissing people!” Entrapta squeezes her cheeks with both hands.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind either.”

“You can’t know that!”

Damara puts a hand on Entrapta’s bare shoulder. “Listen, if this was just a spur-of-the-moment over-reaction, then I am more than happy to forget about it; if however, you have feelings for me… Maybe we should have a talk. It sounds like you might be holding on to some… Let’s call them _misconceptions_ about romance.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Entrapta says. “I’ve only ever had Hordak, and everything I know about romance, I’ve learned from either listening to people talk about it or from reading romance novels when I get _really_ bored. And the whole fascination with _sex_ always throws me off from the really solid conclusions.”

Damara laughs. It is easy to forget that although her engineer seems immature on the surface, she’s nearing forty, and by no means stupid or self-ignorant.

“What I _do_ know,” Entrapta says, “is that the Swift Wind is the most advanced and wonderful thing I have ever worked on, and… It happens to be a person, too. You are so much more than Darla was. And I love that.”

“And Hordak?”

Entrapta looks down. “He… He was — is — clever. Cleverer than you, even. He understood all the things I don’t, as if they were machines. Politics, economics, war, architecture, poetry, philosophy. And he always had a problem he needed help with, and it was never something easy; and he always appreciated my work, even when I failed. He trusted me, unconditionally, with his life; helped me develop his cybernetics and medications.”

She has to take off her glove to wipe a tear away. “When I was sad, or frustrated, or overwhelmed, he would listen to me talk, or maybe just sit with me in silence, and he would always know afterwards why I was sad, frustrated, or overwhelmed. He helped me out of my agoraphobia, and taught me a lot of little tricks to help me out in social situations.”

Damara reaches out and takes Entrapta’s bare hand; and she doesn’t flinch.

“Apart from trying to take over the world, it sounds like he is a compassionate man, and very much deserving of your love. If— no, _when_ we get him away from Prime, I would like to meet him.”

“But, what if I have to choose between him and you?”

“You won’t. I’m sure he’ll be amenable to some kind of arrangement, between the three of us; he sounds level-headed and reasonable in such matters.”

Entrapta pulls Damara into a hug. “Thank you.”

“Shall we call it a day?” Damara suggests, when Entrapta doesn’t let go.

Entrapta nods.

* * *

That night, Adora barely sleeps. In desperation she goes out and finds a large pillow to put in the foot-end of her bed, but to no avail. When she finally falls asleep in the early hours of the morning, she dreams of clutching a cooling corpse in her arms, and darkness holding her healing light at bay until loneliness finally claims her heart and… She wakes up.

Some dreams fade. This one doesn’t.

* * *

They replace the nacelle spar without incident. By the beauty of the Swift Wind’s construction, the chassis is modular and self-aligning. The attachment systems are stronger than the beams themselves, and the mere act of tightening the proverbial bolts aligns the chassis, which aligns everything attached to it.

The only real problem is holding everything in place while they do the swap. It is nerve wracking to cut through the nacelle’s main support, hoping the entire craft doesn’t break in half, and then it is a nightmare to get the full nine feet wide segment of beam into place.

The inertial dampeners can barely accomplish one, while it takes Glimmer’s telekinesis, Entrapta’s tentacle arms, and the removal of well over a thousand different panels and components to even access the spar, and a thousand more to get room to move. The entire transverse hallway is _gone,_ by the time they are done.

Against Adora’s regulations they all work through the night to get everything back in place and functional. They take the next day off.

Catra doesn’t participate.

She uses the simulation room to take Melog for a walk in the simulacrum of a lush forest, like the ones her and Adora used to camp in on field exercises in the academy.

No larger than a mid-sized dog, Melog frolics about in the underbrush, and chases fake birds for sport.

* * *

“Catra.”

Catra turns to see Adora, by the door to the changing room, wearing the living daylights out of a white body suit as always; voluminous golden hair, and bare feet. She looks tired, sure, but amazing none-the-less. Catra averts her eyes before she’s blinded.

“I’m heading out with Melog.”

“Yeah, I know.” Adora looks away. “I’ve barely seen you the last two days.”

Catra picks up her helmet. “Yeah.”

“Are… Are you avoiding me? Did I do something wrong?”

Catra blushes. “No, no— It’s just.” She sighs, and walks over to Adora and looks up at her. “Melog is my friend. You and me, we… Assuming we win the war; we’ll have a long time yet to… Be friends and do things together. But I’m going to have to say goodbye to Melog maybe in just a few days; forever.”

Tears well up in her eyes, and Adora pulls her into a hug.

“Sorry,” Adora says. “I should have known. You two go have fun; and if you want me to come along… We’re all taking a day off, and I can’t sleep.”

“Suit up and grab a speeder,” Catra says, wiping her eyes and smiling.

Then suddenly there’s something soft brushing against Adora’s feet, and she looks down to see a small Melog playfully walking between her legs. They make a small, cute noise.

“Oh, you’d like that, huh?” Catra says. “Am I not enough of a playmate on my lonesome?”

No, she is not. It turns out She-Ra is a much more capable play-wrestler than Catra could ever be.

* * *

Functioning fabricator and full superstructure integrity goes a long way towards making Swift Wind not just space-worthy but fully capable. Entrapta of course ordered the fabricator to make replacement outer hull panels on their day off, so come the next, they replace the patched ones with new ones, and toss the old ones back in the recycler.

That leaves only the monumental work of recalibrating and checking over the entire rest of the ship; all five thousand or so go/no-go checks that need manual verification; and then the replacement of the point-defense turrets.

* * *

They are done, on afternoon. Weeks ahead of Entrapta’s initial schedule. It has been exhausting, but the satisfaction of the job well done more than makes up for it.

“A toast,” Adora says.

They all — save Catra — rise from the mess table, and everyone lifts their cups.

“Thank you, guys,” she says. “And to Entrapta and Damara.”

“Oh, thank you,” Entrapta says. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“Entrapta, she means with regards to completing the repairs,” Damara says.

“Oh! Of course, how silly of me,” Entrapta says.

“What is it I don’t know?” Adora says.

“Oh, we’re together now,” Entrapta says. “Damara and I.”

Adora turns to Damara. “Pardon?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Damara says. “She is intelligent, compulsively honest, congenitally unpretentious, and the literal reason I am alive right now.”

“Don’t worry, Adora,” Glimmer says. “It’s always weird finding out one’s parents have romantic lives.”

“Not to mention sex lives,” Bow adds. “Did Angella ever date?”

“Not successfully; though she was courted pretty aggressively after dad… When we first thought he was dead.”

“Just to clarify,” Damara says, “Entrapta and I are not in a sexual relationship; which suits both of us.”

Adora shakes herself out of it. “Okay. You know what, fine. Congratulations, Entrapta, Mom.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Entrapta says.

“Which reminds me,” Damara says, “could I get you to marry us?”

Adora puts down her cup and turns to walk away, as Damara bursts into laughter. “Sorry, sorry, Adora, come back, give your speech!”

Seriousness returns a little bit, and Adora collects herself. “Okay, japes and jokes aside, we have a working ship. That means we can move onto the next problems.”

Adora looks at Catra, who hasn’t really been participating in the elated mood.

“Melog has requested that we help them… Pass on. By destroying the First-Ones’ Heart-of-Krytis-installation. Entrapta, have you had opportunity to review the data from the drone mission?”

Entrapta nods. “Yeah. It’s… Not looking so good. My initial idea was to just blow it up with a big bomb, but I am fairly sure the release of raw magic might trigger a chain reaction and basically subduct the entire surface of Krytis.”

“That sounds bad; what does ‘subduct’ mean?”

“Krytis, like Etheria has a thin layer of solid rock on the outside, the Crust, while below it is hot enough that rock melts, the Mantle. What this event would do is to virtually turn the entire crust upside down, and all life on it would be sterilized away.”

Melog, sitting in Catra’s lap, snorts.

“So, let’s not do that. I’m guessing we need a more controlled release of energy,” Adora says.

“I’m going to need to discuss the specifics with Glimmer; the solution is likely going to be a spell of some kind,” Entrapta says.

“I’m game,” Glimmer says.

“Good. Then… Once that is done, we still need to figure out how to get home. It seems this trip was a bust. No offense to Melog.”

* * *

It turns out to be even simpler than that.

They land at the bottom of the shaft.

Adora dismounts Melog, and holds up a hand to help Catra down — entirely superfluous in the low gravity, but a gesture Catra isn’t going to pass up for the world.

“Melog,” Adora says. “Thank you for showing me all that.”

Melog bumps its large head against Adora, and rumbles happily.

“Now you know,” Catra says. “About Krytis.”

“You were able to drive him away, huh?” Adora says, “I always had the feeling Prime wasn’t invincible.” She rubs Melog’s flank with a gloved hand.

“It’s right over here,” Catra says, and directs Adora to the manhole access to the Heart.

They proceed down the ladder into the weightless darkness and onto the walkway.

Adora makes light, but it doesn’t seem like starlight has much power here, in the center of the dark world.

The black-purple energies of the Heart fill the air, flaking off like threads in the face of starlight.

“That’s the Heart,” Adora says, as she beholds the impossible, enormous device, spinning and writhing, warping in ways no three-dimensional geometry would allow. Spheres within spheres, cubes within cubes, toruses within toruses.

“Yeah,” Catra says.

Adora holds out a hand, and in it, Parabell appears. From her hand, it takes off into the air, growing and growing, until it is a lance large enough to slay perhaps a spacecraft as large as Prime’s capital ship, the _Iron Fist._

And there, it remains. Poised to impale the Heart.

“All right,” Adora says. “Melog, take us out of here again.”

They make the return trip in silence.

* * *

The Swift Wind takes off from Krytis, leaping into the skies with renewed vigor, dancing in Bow’s dextrous hands. Damara sends out a message to the satellite swarm to prepare for pickup. And they begin plotting course to perform an dozen intercepts.

But for the moment, they just let her gently orbit, awaiting the calamity below.

Catra sits in the simulation chamber, under the warm sun, on the surface of Krytis; she’s wearing just a short-sleeved blouse and shorts. The white of her legs and left arm hidden under an already fading round of fur dye; while the light scar across her nose, is still there.

Under her chin is another colourless patch, matching the lock of white hair on her scalp, where the bullet that killed her passed through.

Melog rests its head in her lap.

“You just say when you’re ready, friend,” Catra says to them.

Melog snuggles up against her.

  
_Happy._   


“Yeah, I know you are. This is what you wanted.”

  
_Grateful._   


Melog licks her face. It tickles.

  
_You._   


“What about me?”

  
_Melog. You._   


Catra smiles. “Yes. You and me. I… I’ll be sure to tell everyone about you. Maybe one day we’ll come back to Krytis.”

  
_Hope._   


“Yeah.”

Melog looks over at Adora, standing in the middle distance.

  
_Ready._   


“Melog is… Is ready,” Catra says, and her voice fails. “ _C’mere you._ ”

Melog shoves its head into Catra’s arms, and Catra weeps openly.

Adora wipes her eyes with a thumb, and reaches out to the blade far below her. She feels the blade plunge home and immediately be annihilated by the resulting release of magic.

Melog doesn’t immediately react.

“Did it work?” Adora asks.

Melog makes a little noise.

“Okay.”

Catra sniffles. “I’m going to miss you,” she says.

  
_Catra. Melog. Always._   


“Yeah, always.”

And then, it comes.

Adora looks around her, and feels the tremor in the ground; not that they are standing on Krytis, but Melog’s connection is what gives them a true image of the surface.

Suddenly, lichen begins appear beneath her feet, and out on the horizon, Adora sees a mountain explode into a tremendous volcanic eruption.

Melog begins fading from reality, as if turning transparent, starting with its long flexible tail, and ascending up its body. Over the next few minutes, they fade away in Catra’s arms.

What is left behind is… Bones.

Feeble, little, greying bones, too damaged by the passage of time to accurately identify as belonging to one creature or another.

And then the simulation cuts out, leaving Catra sitting on the hard floor, cross legged. The bones vanished as well, no doubt transported back to the surface somehow; right where they belong.

Catra throws her head back and wails, and Adora rushes to her side, hugging her tight.

They stay like that for a long time. Catra clutching Adora tighter than she has ever held anyone.

But at some point, no matter ones’ sadness, the tears run dry.

“They’re really gone now,” Catra says, pulling away and wiping her eyes.

“Yeah, Adora says, wait…”

"Hm?

“Your eye.”

Adora puts a finger under Catra’s chin, and lifts her face up to see.

The right eye, which was just moments ago white from being restored by Starlight, is now…

Blue.

Brilliantly blue. Almost glowing.

Adora looks Catra over. “Your arm!”

Catra looks down at her arm, which is no longer furred white hidden under a fading dye job, but is a full, deep brown; almost purple.

Her legs are the same.

“You…” Adora says. “You look like Melog.”

And then it clicks, for Catra. “Oh I am _such_ and idiot!”

“What now?”

“Melog! It’s like with She-Ra!”

“I don’t—”

“ _I’m_ Melog now. It was never a name! It’s a _title!_ ”

“Holy shit,” Adora says under her breath.

“Damn!” Catra continues. “This was what they were trying to tell me all along! Of course! I’m the first Krytisian to return home in who knows how many years! That’s why they had to die! So I could become the next incarnation! I’m _such_ an idiot!”

“Hey,” Adora says. “Between the two of us, _I’m_ the idiot, yeah?”

Catra nods. “Okay, yeah. It’s refreshing that you just admit it so readily.”

* * *

They enter the control room, and Catra looks up at the wall-screens where Krytis hangs overhead, like a ceiling. The green is already visible; along with the volcanic eruption plumes drifting across its surface on the trade winds.

The others turn as they enter.

“Is it done?” Glimmer asks.

Catra nods.

“You look different,” she remarks.

“I’m the new Melog,” Catra says.

There’s a long pause.

“You’re going to have to explain that,” Bow says.


	18. Old Flesh, New Powers

It is the first moment’s respite they’ve all had in a while, by now. If one can find family in a little spacecraft crew, then this is a family dinner. Wrong Hordak has fixed a big pot of delicious stew, entirely on his own initiative, and as it turns out he is an excellent cook.

Catra and Adora are at opposite ends of the table, as usual, Bow and Glimmer share one side, while Entrapta and Wrong Hordak have the other — with the added complication that Entrapta is actually sitting in Damara’s lap.

And of course, alcohol is back on the table; in moderation. Adora has begun tinkering with engineering the perfect fabricator-made beer; with mixed results.

But there is still things to discuss. The revelation that Catra is Melog is all things considered, relatively easy to grasp. She-Ra is a… Relatively known quantity. Unique, but known.

What is less easy to grasp is just where she is putting all of it.

“What?” Catra asks, sitting down with a bowl of stew.

“That’s your… Seventh serving?” Bow says.

“It is? I think I lost track after three.”

“I’m more worried about what she’ll do to the plumbing tomorrow,” Glimmer says.

“Gross,” Catra notes. “We’re eating.”

“Are you okay?” Adora asks.

“Yeah; I’m just hungry.”

“We’re going to have to reheat something rate,” Glimmer says, eyeing the three gallon stockpot on the counter by the kitchen.

“Don’t worry. I’ll have an MRE if I’m peckish.”

“You are welcome to eat up, sister,” Wrong Hordak says. “Perhaps I shall attempt a repeat in an even larger batch; Glimmer informs me stew is better the day after.”

“Please, don’t let me stop you; this is delicious,” Catra says, between spoonfuls.

“So,” Adora says. “What do we do about returning to Etheria?”

Catra holds up a hand, chews and swallows. “Give me a few days to figure out what I can do now.”

“A few days?” Adora asks. “Catra it took me _months_ to master the finer points of being She-Ra. I am _still_ figuring things out.”

“Yeah; but the difference between us is that you had to do it alone. I’ll have you.”

Adora blushes. “Oh. Right, because you mean I’ve done it already, and maybe there’s an analogous method for you?”

“Also just because you’re just smart and hardworking like nobody else; I couldn’t ask for a better coach.”

Adora blushes harder.

“Might I add,” Glimmer says, “that I was the one who figured out how starlight works? Just having a partner to help you get outside your own head is invaluable.”

Catra points in agreement, and lifts the bowl to drink the rest of the stew down. “That too,” she says, and wipes her lips with a napkin. She begins to stand up, and stops. “Would it be ridiculous if I went for another?”

There’s a round of head shakes. Everyone is at this point morbidly fascinated with her ability to down food.

“There has to be some kind of trickery involved,” Entrapta says. “This is skirting what’s anatomically and physically possible.”

* * *

Adora sits up until late, that night, looking at the stars, thinking over the events of their little adventure so far; in between tweaking the recipe for what is quickly approaching a really good recipe for a beer that has never seen the inside of a brewing vessel.

“You should go to bed,” Damara says.

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

She gets up. “I… I guess I’m worried we’ll end up like the Star Siblings. Unable to return home; that we’ll have to spend a year mining asteroids to build weapons, and when we’re ready, there won’t even be an Etheria to return home to.”

Damara reaches up to put a hand on her shoulder. “In my experience, worrying is never going to solve anything.”

Adora puts a hand on hers. “Mom…”

“What is, my daughter?”

“Do you ever wish you could be flesh and blood again?”

Damara shakes her head. “I know what you might be offering; but no. I find, I am quite comfortable in my new life as a spacecraft.”

“I keep thinking of what you did, a thousand years ago. Sacrificed yourself to save the world. Do… Do you think I might have to do that too?”

“Oh, sweetheart, goodness no.” Damara reaches up to stroke her cheek. “When I decided to give up my life, it was precisely _because_ I never wanted you — or anyone to have to sacrifice themselves. Although…”

She looks away.

“It never really worked out that way, did it? Serenia and the others…”

She looks up at Adora, looking her straight in the eye. “Adora, I want you to know something. Wisdom, hard earned.”

Adora nods.

“You are worth more than what you can give to others. You hear me? You deserve happiness, too. We’ll get back to Etheria, and in time to win the war too, that I _promise._ ”

“You can’t promise me that.”

“And yet, I have. Now, off you go. And take care not to wake Catra, yeah? She deserves her beauty rest.”

Adora heads off to the crew quarters, bare feet on warm floors. She undoes her ponytail on the way, letting her golden locks fall free. It is, in a way the hair she always wanted to have, but instead she was saddled with average dirty blonde locks and learned to live with them. That first time she became She-Ra, it was already right; choosing to match her outfit with white was stylistically striking, but ultimately kind of gauche.

Come to think of it, she also always resented being slight of build. They used to joke she was built like Kyle with tits. It wasn’t far off. Now she’s not only a head taller, with shoulders to embarrass Rogelio, but also curvaceous and muscular, not to mention bustier.

She barely looks at herself in mirrors, because everything is just as it should be.

She reaches her chambers, and is brought out of the reverie. The door opens for her, and inside, quite rightly, is Catra. Lying on her bed; but not in the foot-end. She’s splayed over the bed. In a most unflattering way, she has unzipped her sleeping onesie, perhaps done for cooling, or perhaps to rub her aching belly.

Adora unzips her own body-suit — it needs laundering anyway — and throws it in the corner, then creeps into the too-narrow bed beside Catra. For a moment she considers going for a belly rub, but then Catra whimpers, mutters “ _Melog_ ” and turns on her side.

Adora pulls the blanket up from where it lies halfway on the floor, and pulls it around her more for the sensation of being covered than for warmth, and then snuggles up to Catra as big spoon, draping an arm over her.

“It’s okay, Cat.”

Sleep takes her almost immediately.

* * *

She wakes up from pleasantly nonsensical dreams to an empty bed, and for a moment, feels a deep moment of dread.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

There, in the door, is Catra. She hasn’t zipped her onesie still, but something is off about it. The sleeves and pant legs are too short. She’s holding a big bowl of cereal in one hand.

“Hey yourself,” she says, blinking the sand out of her eyes. “Still hungry?”

“Yeah, I think I’m making up for lost time. Also —” she holds out an arm, showing just how much she has outgrown her onesie “— proof positive that becoming the incarnation of a planetary protector comes with a growth spurt.”

Adora casts the blanket off, and stands, stretching.

Catra feeds herself a spoonful of cereal, pointedly looking down the hallway instead at Adora.

“Well, I didn’t eat like a platoon during mine,” Adora says, letting herself drop to the floor to do a few clapping push-ups. “No offense, just observation. And make sure you measure yourself regularly, to get some data for making predictions.”

“Yeah I’m already doing that; and Damara theorizes your situation has something to do with how your starlight healing can create tissue from nothing, but ultimately there’s no way to know for sure.”

Adora rolls onto her back for a few cross-body crunches, arms folded across her chest.

“Anyway, I’m not just three inches taller; I’ve also put on muscle. I’m back to looking fresh out of boot camp.”

In all fairness, that was a pretty good look.

Adora gets up, rolling her shoulders and neck. “Was— was there any specific reason why you let yourself… Waste away?”

Catra looks down. “Well, the enhancements I got were not exactly designed with the health of their user in mind. Once I got up there in the high ranks, PE wasn’t really something I had time for; same with three square meals per day. It’s a lot quicker to skip breakfast and have just coffee and a smoke.”

Adora grabs a blouse and a pair of tights. She gets dressed, and heads out, Catra falling in step beside her as they head to the mess.

“It’s not doing anything about my grey hairs, though,” Catra notes.

“Hm?”

Catra points to her temples, where indeed, she’s got a bit of salt-and-pepper there. “Side effect of the enhancements; a kind of accelerated aging.”

“Ouch.”

“At least the healing thing did away with my crows’ feet.”

They reach the mess hall. Empty. “Sparkles and Flyboy are still in their room, so either sleeping or — you-know, and Wrong Hordak is down in the simulator. Entrapta is anybody’s guess, and I haven’t asked. Hope you’re hungry for cereal.”

“I think I’ll just make some eggs, thanks.”

Said eggs come as separate yolk and white; straight from the fabricator. Adora prefers her scrambles yolk-y.

* * *

“Ah, captain Adora, sister Catra,” Wrong Hordak says, as the simulation winds down. “You are just in time; I understand lady Damara has use for the simulation space, and you are invited.”

“What were you training?” Adora asks.

“Piloting the Swift Wind,” Wrong Hordak says, “that I might assist brother Bow in astrogation and flight, should he need it.”

“Keep up the good work,” Adora says.

“Also, I think I have decided on a name for myself: Wrodak.”

Adora and Catra share a look.

“Isn’t that just a contraction of Wrong and Hordak?” Catra asks.

“Yes. It symbolizes the happenstance of my freedom, and how we don’t get to choose the circumstances we live in, but must make the best of them with what we’re given. I am not Hordak, and I am not Wrong, but I exist as I am because of Hordak, and an honest mistake.”

Adora pats him on the shoulder. “Should we throw you a party?”

Wrodak shakes his head. “I would rather there be no fanfare. We can celebrate when Horde Prime has been defeated. Enjoy your session with lady Damara.”

Then he walks past them.

“It’s incongruous,” Catra notes when he’s out of earshot. “He’s the spitting image of Hordak, save for the white hair and a few subtle surgical scars. I can’t help but picture Hordak in pink now.”

Adora snorts. “I never saw the chancellor in anything other than a tuxedo.”

“He knew how to rock a coverall and a welder’s apron.”

They head onto the simulation floor, which reconfigures itself around them; the floor becoming fall-friendly mats, walls becoming vast tracts of windows overlooking a snow-covered mountain range, and the ceiling sprouting ornately carved wood beams.

Damara appears out of thin air. “Good morning, girls.”

* * *

Catra sits there, cross-legged, eyes shut, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Adora sits off to one side, knees tucked. Damara to the other, in full lotus.

“Adora,” Catra says, cracking open her blue eye. “What’s that thing you say, for the honor something-something?”

“My _words_?” Adora asks.

“Yeah.”

“Catra, is this relevant?” Damara asks. “I feel like you’re coming up with excuses not to meditate.”

Catra shrugs. “Look, teach, I’ve been patient. We’ve been at this for over an hour, and I’m about to fall asleep any minute now. I’m feeling forced to conclude that this is not going to work. If my predecessors want to contact me, they’re probably going to do it in my dreams, anyway; the way things are going. Either that, or I’ll get Sparkles to hypnotize me again.”

Damara considers this. “I suppose. Why are you interested in She-Ra’s words?”

“Necessary versus Complete. We don’t know what’s necessary, but we do know what’s complete; if we reproduce the complete process, there’s a higher chance we succeed than if we try to deduce only the necessary steps.”

“Who’s quoting books now,” Adora says.

“Paraphrasing. Hordak was never that concise in writing,” Catra says.

“Going by your earlier logic, there’s no reason that should work either,” Damara notes.

Catra looks between the two of them. “Any better ideas?”

Damara and Adora share a glance. Not a one between them.

“ _For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command,_ ” Damara quotes.

“Yeah,” Adora says. “But; there was more to transforming that that. Once I had enough practice, I could just _think_ the words to transform.”

“Yes,” Damara says. “That was my experience as well. Very convenient.”

“However,” Adora continues. “She-Ra existed before Eternian colonization of Etheria; and I am not even sure there were words for transformation then, or if it was a permanent state like I am now.”

“That of course makes sense,” Damara says.

“On the Velvet Glove…” Adora says, “I came up with a new phrase. And I know it’s probably not _why_ I’m She-Ra now, but seeing as I wasn’t a First-Ones’ She-Ra anymore, it felt appropriate.”

“Let’s hear it,” Catra says.

“For the hope of Etheria, starlight is mine to command.”

Catra rubs her cheek. “Who was Grayskull anyway?”

“Founder of the Eternian civilization known as the First-Ones. A sorcerer king, who made the questionable but-in-hindsight-wise decision to leave his world-spanning empire in the hands of his harem of concubines,” Damara summarizes.

“Ah. Great men are seldom good?” Catra asks.

“Most likely,” Damara says.

Catra looks down at her hands, extending her claws from her stubby, wide fingertips. She reaches out and plucks a notepad and pen from thin air, as per the rules of the simulation.

“Okay. For the Hope of Etheria, starlight is mine to command. Melog is not from Etheria, and starlight is right out.”

“Problem number one is we don’t know _what_ is Melog’s to command,” Damara notes.

“Or even if Melog commands; arguably She-Ra doesn’t do a lot of commanding starlight,” Adora says

“For the Hope of Krytis, _blank_ is mine to _blank,_ ” Catra says. “I don’t like hope.”

“Why not?”

“Because Krytis is dead and arguably, in the process of being reborn. Krytisians are scattered across the galaxy. Etheria is in peril, and needs saving; needs hope.”

Catra taps the pen to the notepad.

“So what does Krytis need?” Adora asks.

“Vengeance.”

“Might I just caution against that?” Damara asks. “Vengeance is seldom healthy to pursue.”

“And yet it is exactly what Prime needs done unto him,” Catra says, “My words, I’m going with vengeance. For the Vengeance of Krytis, _blank_ is mine to _blank._ ”

* * *

“Okay, let’s enumerate the former Melog’s observed abilities,” Glimmer says. “Size changing, immunity to various weapons, supernatural strength and combat ability…”

Damara writes it down on a blackboard — or rather, the blackboard writes itself.

“Weather control,” Adora says. “The overcast skies where their doing.”

“There was that freaky impostor construct in a hazard suit,” Catra notes.

“Not showing up on video,” Glimmer adds. “That threw me and Bow for a spin.”

“Psychic communication,” Catra says, “that’s how they spoke to me; nearly killed me with that too. And I saw in a flashback how they used it against Horde clones.”

“It managed to damage internal components of the Swift Wind while only attacking externally,” Damara says. “Let’s call that ‘spooky action at a distance,’ or so.”

“They teleported; after a fashion,” Catra says. “Not sure how it worked, but it was _really_ disorienting.”

“When we get back to Etheria, maybe you can contrast and compare with mine?” Glimmer suggests.

“They were hard to hit,” Adora says. “When I fought them with Parabell, it seemed like they were always just beside where they ought to have been. It also seemed like when I used starlight offensively — even though I’m not very good at that yet — it didn’t really bother them.”

They all look at the blackboard.

> _SIZE, IMMUNITY, STRENGTH, WEATHER, INVISIBILITY, PSYCHIC, SPOOKY, TELEPORTATION, DODGY, REFLECTIVE(?)_

“I mean, there’s at least a few of them that’s just plain illusion magic,” Glimmer says. “In combat, invisibility, is often employed together with an offset decoy to discourage the enemy from attacking randomly.”

“It is pretty much the perfect ambush predator,” Adora notes. “All misdirection and capacity for sudden and unfathomable violence.”

Catra stares at the words.

“Are you getting anything?” Damara asks.

“Maybe,” Catra says.

* * *

“ _Down you go,_ ” Glimmer says, and lays Catra’s head down in her lap, again.

Witnessing Glimmer induce Catra is disturbing. It’s like her friend has an off-switch.

“Catra, I need you to sit up for me,” Glimmer says.

Catra obeys, eyes closed.

“You’re Melog,” she says.

“I am,” Catra concurs.

“I need you to go meet with the previous incarnations of Melog,” Glimmer says. “And when you do, you will converse with them in your mind, ask them for advice. Then on your own terms, you will return to us. However, should I call you back, you will return immediately.”

Glimmer rises to her feet and brushes off her lilac trousers, then walks off to the other end of the dojo. Adora and Damara follow her.

“So, how long do we give her?” Adora asks.

“As long as she needs,” Glimmer says. “Call me if there’s anything.”

“Where are you going?”

Glimmer looks at Adora with a quizzical look. “I’m going to spend my day off with Bow; what else?”

“Oh. Right. Say hi to him for me, yeah?”

“Always.”

* * *

“You’re already improving,” Damara says, probing the red splotchy line drawn by Adora’s blade across her inner thigh. “This is the first time you’ve killed me without my counter-attack getting you.”

She twirls her slender bluish blade. Then casually switches it to her right hand. “Again.”

Adora doesn’t take up a combat stance. Her mind races to recall an instance of Damara preferring the use of either hand. She comes up blank. Every single sword duel they’ve had, she has been fighting left handed. “Are you telling me you were right handed this entire time?”

“Ambidextrous. Well, technically, ambidextrous by training.”

“And you were right-handed before that?”

Damara grins. “Why don’t you come find out?”

* * *

Catra returns to the real world, opening her eyes and getting her bearings. She’s still in the dojo, and Damara is standing over Adora; her sword at Adora’s throat, Adora’s blade pointed at Damara’s crotch.

Damara relents, and offers Adora a hand, saying something; but no sound reaches Catra. Some kind of sound barrier? There’s a circle marked out in red around where she’s sitting. Catra stands up, limbering up her knees, before heading out of the circle. The sound returns.

“Hey!” Adora says. “What’s up?”

Catra blinks. “Uh. I—”

“It’s okay if it didn’t work,” Adora says.

“No, it did, I just kinda… Well, I met Melog again; the one who came before me.” Catra looks away. “And we just played around; that was pretty much all we did. I’m sorry, I messed up.”

Adora giggles. “You got to meet your friend again, that’s not time wasted. We can try again later.”

“And you might have gotten something for it anyway,” Damara notes. “Anything?”

Catra looks at her left hand, the pads in her palm are maroon, against the beige on her right. There’s something in her mind she doesn’t want to acknowledge. Something horrifying. A place her thoughts recoil from.

She closes her eyes. In her minds eye, she imagines old Melog beside her, as they go together into that place. With a friend like that by her side, there’s nothing to be afraid of.

“ _Catra,_ ” Adora says, quietly.

Catra opens her eyes.

Her left hand is a lightless void. So black it is a silhouette.

“What emotion are you feeling right now?” Damara asks.

“I don’t know,” Catra says. “I’m afraid, but as long as I have…” the blackness vanishes suddenly. “Sorry,” she says.

Adora comes up to her, “don’t worry about it, it was hard the first time for me too. What were you about to say?”

“It’s sappy,” Catra says, blushing.

“All the more reason to say it.”

“I was about to say ‘as long as I have my friends it’s going to be okay’ or something.”

“Courage,” Damara says.

Adora looks at Damara, then back to Catra. “My starlight comes from love. It makes sense your… Shadow, that it would come from something else.”

Catra looks at Adora. “Love? But then—” her thoughts make a beeline for that very first moment, just a handful of days ago, when she came back from the cold embrace of death, into the warm embrace of life anew. The realization hits her _hard_ and suddenly she can barely breathe. _That cannot possibly be._

“Let’s put courage down as a likely candidate, but keep an open mind,” Damara says. “This is real progress, Catra. I’m very proud of you.”

Catra looks at Damara. “Thanks, teach.”

“Now, how about you two have a little re-match, to limber up?”

“Sure,” Catra says. Anything to take her mind of what she just thought.

Adora grins, and takes a few steps back, summoning Parabell.

Catra holds out a hand, and wishes for her old sword. Half haft, half blade; overall as long as the slender longsword Adora wields, but with a wide blade more like a long dagger. It chops like an axe, slashes like a sword, stabs like a spear.

She grabs it by the cross guard, reverse. The pommel serves nicely as a striking tool too. Then she falls into a combat stance, right hand forward, claws out.

“Ready,” Damara says. “Engage.”

* * *

Catra heads back to her room to change and shower, victorious but… It’s not really fair to call it a win when a best-out-of-three is decided by your opponent randomly tripping on the edge of a fall mat. On the way she stops by the mess to stock up on meal bars, devouring two of them before she even reaches her room.

The warm water is delectable on her sore muscles — the second round turned into an impromptu and protracted wrestling match when Adora disarmed her, and Catra returned the favor with complementary claw marks. Adora won that one on brute strength. She’s a beast, in that way.

As the ventilation system takes care of the steam, she wipes the full length mirror with her beach towel — no other size can really get the water out of her fur — and looks at her figure in the mirror, nude, for the first time.

Her curves are back; that’s good. And she’s not growing a pair of tits like Adora is. The sports bras that woman wears now; only super strength can get those on and off without dislocating a shoulder.

Both her legs are marooon brown, up to a gentle transition mid-thigh where… She doesn’t want to think about that. It looks like she’s wearing thigh-high stockings. Same with her left arm; on which the color reaches all the way up to her shoulder.

She turns her side and flexes. Her bicep curls up like steel, and her tricep strains against the skin. That’s definitely new.

Idly, her thoughts drift to the question of whether Adora does this too.

The scars are still there, across the nose, under her chin, but they look regular now, like the one at her temple; that one is already fading a bit, actually.

Her face is the same, thankfully. Her eye is bluer now than it ever was, and makes the yellow one look almost pale in comparison. The short hair is a bit of a shame, but it’ll grow out eventually. But that too, is changed; her greying temples are still there, but the rest is black now. Deep black.

Turning to look at her back, her tail has changed too, compeltely black as well; up her spine, where the implant used to be, is a line of long black fur. Weird.

She slaps her ass.

This is turning out just fine.

* * *

Except for the wardrobe thing. The few outfits she has on hand are all tailored to her old height and other measurements.

She grabs her communicator earbud. “Call Sparkles.”

“ _Catra?_ ” Glimmer says and giggles.

Catra knows that type of giggle. “Hey, Sparkles. Can I steal you away from your boyfriend for some fashion help?”

“ _Yeah. I’m sure he can find something to entertain himself with while we have a little girl time. Can’t you?!_ ”

Catra smiles. She’s a little bit relieved those two are together, and Glimmer isn’t trying to get Adora back — _and nope, we are not thinking about that!_

“I hear Wrong— I mean Wrodak is taking pilot lessons in the simulator. Maybe Flyboy should let him try the real thing with supervision?”

* * *

“Did you figure it out?” Glimmer asks, as they meet up down in fabrication.

“Yeah, but don’t ask me to demonstrate it,” Catra says. “It’s shadows, or something. Shadow powers. Still figuring it out.”

“The hypnosis didn’t help?”

“Oh it did, I just accidentally spent it playing with old Melog. I— I’m really glad they aren’t gone.”

Glimmer smiles warmly. “I was never allowed to have pets when I was a little girl; but now you’ve got one living in your head — lucky you.”

Catra nods. “So. Clothes?”

She’s wearing the looses pants and blouse she had. She’s also wearing the forehead protector.

“Got anything in mind?” Glimmer asks.

* * *

“This is pretty risque. I didn’t expect this of you,” Glimmer notes.

“Listen, Sparkles, you’re not getting me into a prim gala uniform, not when I look _this_ good now.”

Catra has put together a draft outfit from stock templates: a backless top with low neck; but then rash guard sleeves with a high collar — and then only the right sleeve. Complementing that, compression shorts, and thigh high legwarmers, leaving a very conspicuous strip of uncovered flesh on her inner thighs.

Dark reds, browns, and black.

“So long as you’re going to throw some actual armor over that before going into combat, I’m not going to judge,” Glimmer says. “You do know Adora’s bodysuits are armor-grade, right?”

“I’m sexy now, Sparkles, not suicidal; well, not anymore. I’m going to need _all_ of this in armor grade fabric. Can you get me that coat?” She points to the screen.

It’s a heavy leather duster. Glimmer queues it for fabrication.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Catra says. “This isn’t exactly formal wear, so; at some point I _am_ going to have to wear a gala uniform.”

“I’ll design it, but I have to ask, are you still… Growing?”

“Yeah. Let’s not waste fabricator time on stuff I’m just going to outgrow in a couple of hours.”

* * *

Clothes make the woman, but weapons make her a soldier.

In the armoury, Catra encounters a dilemma.

The Parabell Adora gave her is a better blade than Tung Lashor’s crude skewer ever was… But then again, it is highly reflective, gold-detailed, and with a hilt bound in soft, light brown leather.

It doesn’t serve to be picky about _looks_ when it comes to tools for killing, but Catra didn’t choose to carry five revolvers solely because they are reliable and can fire magnum-caliber rounds. They also just look cool.

Parabell is Adora’s weapon. It fits effortlessly with her fashion choices.

Then she has a strange idea. Almost like an instinct. A gut feeling. And while she has on occasion relied on those in the heat of combat, Catra has always prided herself on making informed and sane decisions using reproducible lines of reasoning.

She grasps Parabell by the hilt, and goes to that terrifying place in her mind, calling forth the darkness.

The lightless hole in reality opens up, enveloping the weapon in an eye-blink; surprised, Catra drops it, and it clatters on the workbench.

Blackness recedes slowly, revealing a much cruder design; almost identical to Tung Lashor’s, but with a bit more cross-guard. She picks it up. Much better balance too.

She outlines the blade profile and orders a scabbard for it.

This initial success is tremendously motivating. She spends the minutes waiting for fabrication, twirling the blade around like an excited child with a new toy. It is _wicked_ sharp.

A knife from the mêlée weapon racks gets sentenced to obliteration, and puts it upright in a vise. With a single swipe, her new blade cuts directly through the hardened steel, edge against edge.

The scabbard arrives, and Catra hangs it in her belt. This weapon deserves a name. “You can be _Bane._ ”

She turns. “Entrapta?!” Catra calls out.

“ _Yeah?!_ ” Entrapta responds from the next room.

Catra sheathes Bane and heads there.

Entrapta is sitting on the floor, her exoskeleton legs disassembled around her. She’s debarring a part with a hand-held die grinder, which is surprisingly quiet.

“Can you help me build something?”

“What?”

“It’s a weapon Hordak made, just before we… Well. I stole it from him, after he lost, and used it against Prime.”

Entrapta puts the piston rod down on the cloth she has spread out on the floor. “What is it?”

“A personal miniature portal device; intensionally controlled. Glove mounted.”

Entrapta grins. “Let’s see what I can whip up. I have an idea as to how he pulled it off already.”

* * *

Strapping it to her right arm. Piece for piece it looks similar to Hordak’s device; though a bit less bulky and significantly lighter.

“Is it safe to test?”

“We’re not undergoing acceleration,” Entrapta notes. “Go a head.”

Catra picks up a screwdriver, throwing it across the room, and opening a portal that sends it behind her; and she catches it without looking.

She looks fondly at the deceptively lethal little thing. “And you can be _Bad News._ ”


	19. Discreet Valor, Blazing Glory

“We’re going to be playing multiple angles from now on,” Adora says, addressing her crew.

The informality of a mess meeting will not do; today, they are in the control center.

She is standing, putting on the full show of being a starcraft captain: white bodysuit, red jacket, forehead protector, short dark-green cloak slung over one shoulder, and _very_ snazzy boots. Her hands are gently folded behind her back.

“Our illicit access to Horde Prime’s ansible networks has yielded the latest reports from the conquest of Etheria. He’s doing _massive_ troop movements, all across the galaxy, and putting other conquests on hold to focus his undivided attention on our friends back home.”

Nobody has anything to say. That is just bad news. But on the other hand, perhaps a little pride is warranted, that tiny backwater Etheria is such a tough nut for Prime.

Adora turns to her sorceress, who has added an almost-uniform-jacket to her usual lilac trousers and white blouse.

“Glimmer.”

“Captain?”

“I want you to fabricate a long-distance communication beacon and attempt to make contact with our allies on Etheria. See if you can get access to the knowledge you need to develop a magical means by which we can sneak the Swift Wind past the Horde’s iron grip on the Sola system.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Adora turns to her engineer, who is wearing the sturdy grey coverall she always wears under her exoskeleton if not donning full hazard suit.

“Entrapta.”

“Captain?”

“I want you to begin design work on upgrades to the Swift Wind’s combat capabilities. I want a detailed analysis of our options by end of day if you can. As a first point, I want you to make a list of desirable raw materials for the upgrades.”

“Yes, captain.”

Adora turns to her pilot. He’s wearing what is clearly an adaptation of ranger garb, to fit within the catalogue of clothes on file with the fabricator, while still fitting under a hazard suit without undressing. Green jacket, blue pants, and a utility belt.

“Bow.”

“Yes’m?”

“You are to receive the list Entrapta makes, and find us said raw materials.”

“Understood.”

Adora turns to her inside man. He’s wearing a pink armored bodysuit, with a flowing silk sash in a darker shade of same.

“Wrodak.”

“How may I help?”

“I need you to relieve Entrapta as our primary source of intelligence from the ansible network. I know you’ve been working on expanding your skills; now you know what next to learn.”

“Affirmative.”

There is no need to turn to her quartermaster’s avatar, but she does anyway. She’s wearing a sky blue sleeveless top with a single gold shoulder-pad rank insignia, grey cargo pants, and marching boots.

“Damara.”

“Captain.”

“Prioritize helping Wrodak become self-sufficient with Entrapta’s suite of tools; then your teaching duties.”

“Will do.”

Last, her intelligence officer. Adora has to collect herself a little bit, as Catra is staring directly at her, smiling mischievously, whipping her tail languidly back and forth; wearing those thigh high stockings…

“Catra.”

“Adora.”

“You’ll be working with me and Damara to discover the full complement of Melog’s powers; continuing where we left off yesterday.”

“See you there.”

Adora claps her hands. “All right, crew, I want continued high effort. Take breaks, stay hydrated, I’ll see you at lunch.”

* * *

Catra and Adora walk together to the simulation floor.

“What’s with the new clothes?” Adora asks.

“I’m just following your example,” Catra says. “Why’d you pick what _you_ wear?”

Adora looks down herself. “Well— because it symbolizes the people in my life that I love the most; and my starlight derives from that.”

“Oh yeah? Teach me.”

Adora waves her cloak. “Ranger’s cloak. Sorta. Bow gave me one when we lived together at the Hidden Library, after the Ash Corridor before the arctic. I loved that thing; never got to wear it much. This one has adaptive camouflage, of course, and is length adjustable and collapses into a collar; standard features.”

Catra nods along.

“The diadem here, is something Glimmer made for me unprompted. It’s inspired by yours, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Catra taps her forehead protector. “This is a Magicat cultural artifact reserved for warriors, I’ll have you know. It’s kind of tasteless to just copy it.”

Adora stops for a moment, then reads Catra’s jest for what it is. “As if you give a shit.”

Catra snickers. “Someone might, but yeah, not me.”

“Anyway, the beak motif for the nasal is… I mean you don’t even know, but I had a life-changing encounter with a magical animal too. Out in the Antioch system, we ran into some… I guess you could call them space pirates. They had this gigantic space owl named Glory. They gave me my starlight back.”

“I take it Glory is still kicking.”

“Yeah, but their ghost doesn’t live on in my head. I hope we meet again, one day.” Adora takes off her forehead protector and looks at it for a moment.

They reach the elevator.

“I recognize the boots,” Catra says, breaking the somber silence. “That’s Sparkles’ style. Can you really fight in those heels?”

“Sure. It’s actually only an inch, it just looks like two.” Adora lifts up one leg and puts her sole on the elevator doors at Catra’s eye-level, to point to the true depth of her heel in what looks to be a solid wedge heel.

Catra has to take a deep breath. That’s a _lot_ of leg.

“The jacket I know,” Catra says. Indeed she does; Horde standard-issue army non-battledress jackets are — were — red, in reference to the black-powder era uniform jacket. Adora loved — loves — the color. “What’s behind the body suit?”

The doors open, and they head out into the middle level.

“Yeah, the jacket is all me. ‘Self-love’ if you will. The suit dedicated is my heritage as a First-One.”

Catra nods.

They reach the simulation floor, but rather than head in and meet Damara, they linger.

“So, your turn,” Adora says.

“Well, you know this thing,” Catra says and flicks her forehead protector. “This whole getup is basically just… I don’t know, it looks good? Is that valid?”

Adora looks her up and down. “Yeah. It does.”

“The real prize is this —” Catra says and holds up her right hand. “I call it _Bad News._ It’s a reproduction of a weapon Hordak made for himself, and I stole from him when I kicked his butt before we were abducted to the Velvet Glove.”

“What does it do?”

“It makes portals.” She conjures a pair of portals in front of her, spherical distortions of spacetime, and puts a hand through each, resulting in her hands seemingly swapping places — unnerving. “On a spacecraft, you can use it to just space people. It’s part of how I got a body count in the low hundreds on the Velvet Glove.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. I also made this.” She draws her blade. “ _Bane._ Full disclosure, this is the Parabell blade you gave me. I… I think I corrupted it somehow.”

“It looks like the sword you had in the desert.”

Catra nods.

“May I?”

Catra hands it to her.

Adora twirls it, then inspects the hilt. “Wicked. It’s still got the inscription.”

“Hm?” Catra says.

“Like Parabell.” Adora conjures one for reference. _A + C_ on one side and _∞_ on the other.

“I didn’t notice,” Catra lies. She did. And she was strangely happy it was still there.

Adora hands it back to her. “Good. I think; that you’re emulating me? You even named them.”

Catra shrugs. “It just feels right.”

“Yeah. I thought so too. How’s your height?”

“Still growing; faster than you did. The projection tool you showed me says I’ll end up around six foot-nine.”

Adora is six feet, eleven inches.

* * *

Catra sits there, cross-legged. Bane lies before her, sheathed, Bad News rests easily on her right forearm. She breathes deeply, and turns her minds eye inwards; remembering what the hypnosis was like.

She deliberately plunges herself into the terrifying void inside. The shock of it, is almost like the induction Glimmer put her through.

No longer is she sitting there, in Damara’s dojo.

And then it is just a matter of waiting. If she loses hold of her breathing she’ll suffocate; she’s sure of it.

Before long, there’s a presence at her side, a soft snout poking into the palm of her hand.

_Hey Melog._

Melog turns and trots off through the blackness, walking on nothing, and Catra follows. It feels like striding through molasses.

_Are you showing me the way or just getting us more lost?_   


And then her foot hits red sand.

The night sky above, a blue moon hanging low in the sky; desert wind in her hair.

“Hello?”

There’s a blade at her throat.

«Don’t let your guard down in the wasteland, kit.»

Bane is in her hand, and she swats away the knife, twirling around to face her attacker.

He is a grey-furred feliform, with prominent side-burns, and bright yellow eyes. His cloak is the red of the sand. He dances back from her, the long blade of his stiletto glinting in the moonlight. As he crosses the boundary between the red and tan sands, his cloak shifts colors with it.

Catra stands straight. “Who are you and why am I dreaming about you?”

«You can call me by my slave name, Percival.»

“Were you Melog?”

«Yes. Melog the Beast. The Sky-People slew me for that crime.» He sheathes his knife, and Catra glimpses his utilitarian battle garb underneath.

Catra’s Melog peeks out behind him, and darts over to Catra.

«You’re the next one. After the Sky-People’s reckoning.»

“Yeah,” Catra says, crouching down to give her friend some well deserved attention. “I was hoping you could tell me how the fuck this all works.”

«You are the Beast of Darkness now. You tell me.» He turns and walks away.

Catra stands. “You’re an obstinate, unhelpful, prick, you know that?”

He stops, and turns to look at her. «Often we must say other than we think. That is called diplomacy; something you could learn. I am dead, and in life I was ignorant. Ask someone else.»

Catra looks down at Melog. “Wanna go find someone else?”

Melog meows.

* * *

“The key insight you should have about the shield, is that it is not a defensive tool to supplement the sword,” Damara says. “The shield is the main weapon; it is your primary means of survival and offense. The sword is your sidearm.”

Adora looks between Sella Nova on her left arm, and Parabell in her right hand. She lets go of Parabell and it hovers into the air. “Really?”

“I mean, in the general case,” Damara clarifies. She conjures a seven feet long glaive. “In mêlée combat, the pole arm is generally considered a ‘main weapon’ akin to the long firearm.” She showcases a thrust and a leg sweep. “It has range, speed, and tremendous power; in exchange for weight and encumberance. A full-power rifle has range, precision, and volume of fire in exchange for the same concessions.”

Adora nods along.

Damara dismisses the glaive and conjures an arming sword with a scabbard, affixing it to her belt. “Contrast the sword. It is light, relatively small, easy to carry, and versatile to wield; it complements to any outfit as an accessory. In exchange it has reduced range and lethality. Much like a pistol.”

She conjures a round shield. “Just as the pole arm protects its wielder by outranging opponents armed with shorter weapons, the shield protects its wielder by being a physical barrier. You are also no doubt familiar with the offensive potential of a shield; it is no mere wall to hide behind but can be used as a blunt striking tool to devastating effect; and it is virtually impossible to be disarmed of it.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Adora says. She drops Stella Nova, and the shield just hovers by her hand.

Damara draws her sword. “The quintessential technique of shield combat it to never lower your defense.” She showcases an overhand swing with the sword, which forces her to move the shield aside. “Leaving oneself vulnerable on purpose is quickest way to die. Instead:” she holds the shield forward, and makes a short powerful thrust under it. “Always let the sword play second to the shield’s needs. The sword is versatile.”

“Mine more so than others.”

Damara sighs. “Listen, dear, I’m relaying what I know to be true from experience and training. You _are_ a special case, and truth is I cannot teach you how to best use a thousand flying swords, or a shield that can extrude impenetrable silk fabrics. All I can teach you is how to—”

Something _shifts_ and they both turn to look at Catra sitting inside the sound-proof field.

Catra is but a silhouette of perfect black. Like someone took a scalpel to Damara and Adora’s field of vision as if it was a photograph and left behind perfect absence of light.

Nothing else happens.

“As I was saying,” Damara continues, “all I can teach you is how a sword and shield works. The rest you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”

“You also need to drill me in spears,” Adora adds, growing Parabell’s hilt into a spear shaft. “And spear-with-shield. And maybe greatswords.” Another Parabell springs into existence with an eight inch wide blade, five feet long.

“One thing at a time —”

Adora looks over at Catra, and Damara does the same.

She’s gone.

“What the—” Adora says, and then a heavy weight his her back, strong legs calsp around her flanks, and a pair of arms around her neck. “ _Hee~y, Adora!_ ”

Adora stumbles forward, and Catra fades into view, hanging on her back.

“Catra what the _fuck!_ ” Adora sputters.

Catra hops down, and just as Adora turns to face her, she vanishes from view once more.

  
_Come find me if you can._   


Adora groans. “What’s gotten _into_ her!”

Damara giggles. “I think she found something.”

“Catra, you’re _invisible,_ how am I supposed to find you?”

Catra appears again, standing next to Damara. “It’s great, right?”

“Yeah, it’s definitely progress.”

She grins a wide toothy grin. “I can’t _wait_ to show everyone else.”

Adora winces.

“What?”

“I know what you’re thinking; please, don’t start pulling pranks,” Adora says earnestly, “I’m not sure if everyone on board would appreciate your brand of physical comedy.”

Catra’s grin fades. “Right. Right-right.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

Catra pouts. “I had a _lot_ of good pranks all lined up there, though.”

Adora smiles. “I’m sure you had; tell me about them later. For now, what have you found out?” she says, walking up to Catra and Damara, to make the conversation a bit more intimate.

“Well, to begin with, virtually everyone who has ever been Melog has been a major asshole, so I guess I fit right in…”

Damara puts a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t say that, dear.”

Catra shrugs. “I did manage to track down someone, a few generations back, who both knew what he was doing, and ask him some pointed questions —” she draws Bane and mimes threatening someone with it.

“He?” Adora ask.

“Yeah. Why is that surprising?”

“No, it’s just… She-Ra was always a woman.”

Catra rubs her cheek with Bane’s pommel. “I mean, I only met about ten of my predecessors, but apart from Old Melog, they were all feliform. Anyway, that’s immaterial. I met this guy, who conquered the world or something. ‘Everything the light touches, is my empire,’ real megalomaniac. But he knew his stuff, and could teach.”

“Like how to turn invisible,” Adora notes.

“Not as such. But first things first:” the shadow flows over Catra, enveloping her and rendering her nothing but a silhouette, save for her eyes, one brilliantly blue, one equally as brilliantly yellow.

“So what emotion is it?” Adora asks.

The shadow recedes. “It’s—” Catra looks at Adora, and realizes what she’s about to say. “We were right, it is— it is just courage.” She looks away.

“Great!” Adora says, clapping her hands.

“Anyway,” Catra says. “He told me the pillars of Melog’s power is and I quote: psychic power, a cat’s luck, freedom of form, and darkness.”

“Psychic abilities?” Damara asks. “Like… Mind reading?”

“That’s some advanced magic,” Adora notes, “I asked Glimmer about that once.”

  
_Thing is: I’m not sure what I can and can’t do. He refused to explain, so that I had to discover things for my own._   


They both look at Catra, who is very much _not_ speaking.

“That little invisibility trick,” she says. “I’m not actually manipulating light when I do that; I’m just making it so you can’t see me.”

“Cool,” Adora says.

“Yeah, it’s a lot more complicated than just ‘starlight’ or whatever.”

Damara gestures, and a blackboard appears. “Why don’t you two do some brainstorming, and try to map out Catra’s abilities; my presence is needed in the control center.”

* * *

Glimmer goes over her notes for the umpteenth time. The virtual-space mask sits heavy and inert on her forehead. This nut is proving to be too much to crack. The long-range communication beacon sits in the next room, inert. She doesn’t need to look at the elaborate diagrams she has drawn in there; they are burned into her mind’s eye.

It’s been three days since they tried and failed to contact Etheria, and it seems more and more that they are going to go with Entrapta’s plan; or maybe Catra and Adora are about to pull a trick out of a hat.

Across from her, on the opposite side of the makeshift desk sits Entrapta, engrossed in the virtual world idly gesturing in the air — the gloves have a built in hover system, to alleviate the fatigue one would otherwise come to feel after prolonged gesturing in empty air.

Entrapta has excellent lab manners; and is eager to play engaged listener when Glimmer finds the need to verbalize some of her thoughts. She’s also asked for Glimmer’s input on what facilities on board could give up a few dozen cubic feet to make space for the main gun she’s designing.

“Entrapta?” Glimmer asks.

She knows to give Entrapta about a minute to change modes, and come back to reality, so she does.

Eventually, the other woman flips up her own mask. “What can I help you with?”

"You have a lot more experience than me. When do you know to give up on a project?

Entrapta frowns. “Well… This is advice from my mother; I did not receive it directly, but read her memoirs posthumously. When it feels like one should give up, the better answer is almost always vacation. It is considered pretty solid advice, according to those I have relayed it to.”

“Your mother, she died in the conquest of Dryl?”

“Queen Impressa of Dryl. Yeah. She was… Not a good mother by many metrics, and I don’t have fondness for her.”

“Raised by wet nurses and nannies?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

Glimmer nods. “My mother; she— she spent a lot of my childhood grieving; and politicking. I miss her and I wish I could have told her that I love her to bits, but she wasn’t there for me either… Anyway, I’m going to follow your advice, and take a break.”

Entrapta fishes a communicator our and checks the time. “I’ll join you, if you are going to the mess.”

* * *

Glimmer enters the control center, gliding, to find Bow and Wrodak conversing quietly over a shared augmented reality; both of them wearing masks and gloves, but standing and walking about between models Glimmer can’t see.

“Hey babe,” Bow says, looking at her through the mask.

Wrodak waves.

Glimmer heads up to Bow, and hugs him around the waist, kissing him without letting him remove the silver mask covering his eyes. His sleeves are rolled up, showing off the intricate purple-gold-white-black enhancement tattoos gracing his strong arms. “Hey, my pilot.”

“I’m kind of in the middle of something, but—” Bow begins.

“Oh, I’m just here to take a break from looking at spell circles. Give the old thinker a rest.”

“Grab a mask if you want,” Bow says.

Glimmer heads to one of the consoles to find a set of mask and gloves in the drawer.

“We’re doing approach simulations,” Wrodak says, “based on my latest intel. So far it is promising; we can _almost_ make it to Etheria without being shot down.”

“Ha!” Bow says. “Yeah, if I can fly absolutely perfect for six hours straight. And we’re _really_ lucky. Then we’ll make it to Etheria’s _sphere of influence_ before getting riddled with hyperkinetic cannon fire!”

Glimmer inspects the three-dimensional model which her masks overlays the control center; at the same time it turns Bow and Wrodak’s masks transparent. “So what you’re saying is you need that force multiplier from me or Entrapta.”

“Ideally, yes,” Wrodak says, “But it _does_ highlight how capable our starting point is; the Swift Wind and lady Damara truly are a beyond capable.”

Glimmer’s communicator chimes.

She freezes. That’s the chime alerting her to long-distance communications.

With a gesture, she brings the call into the augmented reality.

And there, in the call window, is Starla.

“Calling Swift Wind, this is Starla!”

“Starla!” Glimmer responds. “Glimmer here.”

“Oh yeah, the sorceress; I was hoping to reach Adora?”

“Can you hang on for a minute?” Glimmer asks.

“Yeah, yeah; I have time.”

Glimmer takes off her mask, and takes her Communicator out, where Starla is on hold, then she sets off out of the control room, down the spinal hallway to the elevators, descending to the crew level. Flying weightless is quite fast, and much less strenuous than running.

Adora and Catra have been spending the most of their time together; Glimmer has seen them talking quietly in a corner of the mess, or in the halls, laughing about some in-joke or other. As old friends do.

Reaching the simulation floor, she opens the doors and enters, finding Adora on the floor in a vicious headlock from Catra.

_And then there’s their attempts at killing one another, which they insist is ‘sparring.’_

Adora bucks and struggles, then punches Catra in the elbow hard enough to partially break her hold, gasping for breath. Having secured a moment’s advantage, she leverages her larger body-mass and makes a kip-up using Catra’s ribcage as the floor, forcing a grunt out of Catra. The kip-up turns into a roll forward, and Adora manages to fully break Catra’s hold and turn it onto a throw, planting Catra supine onto the mat — or she would have if Catra didn’t somehow turn the table and the throw into a tumble, landing Adora in an armlock.

Adora taps out and Catra relents immediately.

“Stars above, you’re a menace,” Adora says, out of breath.

Catra rolls to her feet; crouching in a distinctly anomalistic manner. “Hey Sparkles.”

“What’s with your arms?” Glimmer asks.

Catra stands, showing off. Her hands, which look far more like the paws of an animal, hang to her knees, and her upper and lower arms both are the size of Glimmer’s thighs. “Shapeshifting.” A flicker of shadow passes over them, and they shrink to normal proportions.

“Cool. I’ve got Starla on the comms.”

Adora perks up and scrabbles to her feet. She waves a hand at the wall of the dojo, and Starla’s face appears on it.

“Starla!” Adora says.

“Holy shit,” Starla says. “What have _you_ been eating?”

Adora giggles. “Remember I mentioned turning into an eight foot tall hero?”

Starla nods. “Vaguely. Is that your friend who was captured by Prime?” She gestures to Catra.

“The very same.”

“Good. Cool. Look, I think you might be in deep shit.”

Adora stiffens. “How so?”

“Prime is pulling troops out of the Sauelsuesor system — that’s where Nebularia is, our homeworld. We haven’t even begun the Resistance; we’re still distributing fabricators among the Roost. I mean, we’re going to have an easier time, to be sure, but…”

“They’re coming to Etheria,” Adora says.

“And if Prime is pulling ships from a system he’s _actively_ conquering,” Catra adds. “That means he’s pulling _everything_ he has. He’s going to deploy like a million soldiers on Etheria. Maybe even more.”

“We gotta get there, right now,” Adora says.

“We can’t,” Glimmer says. “Bow says there’s no way we can make it past the blockades, not without a force multiplier.”

“Well,” Starla says. “I was actually thinking of coming along and helping out.”

“Shouldn’t you be worrying helping your people?” Catra asks.

“So… Tallstar is a techie, and Jewelstar is a natural born leader. This resistance thing, is turning into a game of supply and logistics. Me and Glory, we’re conspicuous and we’re warriors. The best thing we can do, is actually to boost morale, by going out and fighting Prime. Helping She-Ra, who helped us.”

“Starla, does your siblings _know_ you’re doing this?”

Starla looks away. Then nods. “Yeah. I— We’ve said our goodbyes, in case I don’t come back… The war needs us in different places now, rather than together.”

Adora doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re always going to be welcome aboard the Swift Wind,” Glimmer says. “You and Glory both. We’re in the Regulus system, orbiting Krytis right now.”

Starla nods. “I’ll be there in a few hours; that’s actually closer than Sola.”

* * *

Entrapta takes over the communications link to the Nebularian Roost, which as it turns out is a void of cobbled-together evacuation craft servicing the surviving non-sanitized population of Nebularia. She sends them everything they have data crystals to store; fabricator blueprints, cyberwarfare tool suites, and all the intel they have gathered so far.

And perhaps most crucially, she sends her design for a tool to remove Prime’s sanitizing wasps, as well as Sweet Bee’s papers on sorcerous countermeasures. In return, the Roost sends back all they have on the sanitization process, the nature of the wasps, and what they have so far tried and failed to do with them.

Adora spends the time participating in the discussion with Bow and Wrodak, about the situation in the Sola system, seeing as she can — in a pinch — serve as a main weapon, of sorts.

Come nightfall aboard the Swift Wind, Glory arrives in orbit around Krytis.

* * *

Adora waits in the cargo bay. The compartment has been sealed, and the blast doors to the vehicle bay are shut. The space should be big enough for Glory.

“ _All right, we’re in position,_ ” Starla says in Adora’s earpiece.

“Damara, open the drop chute doors,” Adora says.

Unseen fans evacuate the atmosphere, muting the sound and mitigating the ensuing rush of wind as the entire belly of the Swift Wind opens up.

The artificial gravity turns off for her, and Adora calls on the Starlight, willing herself in motion, floating up in front of the opening.

Out there, in the far distance, perhaps a mile away, she sees the tiny shape of Glory’s great form, and the pressurized crew pod in it’s claws.

She holds out a hand, and lets Starlight flow through it, casting a powerful light out into the void of space.

“ _All right, Glory, you see that? That’s Adora. Remember her from Antioch? Let’s go say hi._ ”

“Hey Glory,” Adora says.

There’s a flash of light in the distance, and Glory begins rapidly approaching. Adora gets to see how they fly in space: with wings turned so the ventral side is aft; same with their tail plumage, which is flared upwards as if displaying.

As they approach, Glory flips around, nimbly, and decelerates, showing Adora directly the brilliant glow of the ventral side of their wings and tail; shining bright with starlight.

Adora just then gets an idea to test later.

Glory coasts to a stop just a few hundred feet from Swift Wind; and it is obvious just how Swift Wind’s hull dwarfs the otherwise enormous bird.

Adora gets a visual on Starla, seated in the saddle, wearing a space suit clearly of First-Ones’ design. She waves. Adora waves back.

“ _Come on you big oaf. See? That’s Adora right there. She glows too, just like you. I’m sure she has some tasty snacks for you, too, maybe some pets._ ”

“Something can be arranged, sure,” Adora says.

Glory hoots. Adora isn’t quite sure how she can hear it despite the soundless vacuum separating them. They fold their wings and hangs there, gently spinning.

“ _Stubborn bird._ ”

Adora grimaces in thought. “Here goes nothing,” she says, and channels starlight into her palms and soles. Emulating Glory, she expels it, expecting thrust, and begins accelerating out into the open. It is dreadfully difficult to control, but it does get Glory’s attention.

“ _What are you doing?_ ”

“I’m coming to you. Or at least I’m trying.”

Relenting on the thrust, Adora tries to control her spin, and manages to mostly do so. However, now she is drifting away from the Swift Wind, and not towards Glory. Very gently she begins countering that velocity with gentle force from her palms.

“ _Glory what are you—_ ”

Glory unfolds their wings and quickly accelerates directly towards Adora, arriving by her in seconds, decelerating gracefully. With utmost precision, Glory reaches out and gently grabs hold of Adora’s cloak with its enormous beak, then gently begins accelerating towards the Swift Wind.

“What’re they doing?” Adora asks.

“ _I think Glory thinks you’re a fledgeling. They’re taking you back to the nest. So… Mission accomplished I guess?_ ”

And indeed, within the minute, Adora is deposited gently back into the cargo hold. Glory cautiously inspects the room inside, then decides it’s safe enough; deposits the pod, and slips inside.

At Starla’s recommendation, Damara very slowly closes the drop chute doors, gently turns on the artificial gravity, and re-pressurizes gradually. Starla dismounts, and Glory responds by settling on the floor, hiding it’s head under one wing, and going to sleep.

Starla takes off her helmet, causing her enormous curly orange hair to spill out.

Adora holds out a hand, and they shake.

“Man, you’re even bigger in person,” Starla says. “Did you really just brave the vacuum of space without a suit?”

Adora nods. “Good to have you on board, come say hi to the rest of us.”


	20. Landfall, Etheria

Starla follows Adora into the control center, where the others are waiting.

Then she spots Wrodak.

“Clone!” she yells, drawing her saber, and leaping backwards.

Adora spins to face her, alarmed.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?!” Starla yells.

“Starla, calm down.”

“No! You’ve all been sanitized! This is some Prime plot, isn’t it?!”

Wrodak puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder. “Allow me, sister Adora.”

He steps forward. “Hello, honored Starla,” he says. “I am Wrodak, and I assure you I am _not_ affiliated with Prime. In fact, I am a proud member of the resistance.”

“Lies.”

Wrodak frowns. “I will go so far as to borrow brother Bow’s vulgar language and say that were I so endowed, Horde Prime could suck my dick.”

Starla blinks. “Wh— Okay, that’s… Look, this could still be a trick.”

“Lady Entrapta,” Wrodak says. “Have you an otoscope on you?”

An extended tentacle deposits the tool in his outstretched hand. “Please, see for yourself; the sanitizing wasps embed themselves in the nose, yes? I am not sanitized. I have a very prominent internal scar; white from starlight.”

Starla cautiously reaches out, taking the offered tool. Wrodak kneels, presenting his nasal opening, and gently guiding Starla’s hand.

Starla spends a few seconds getting the right viewing angle. “Oh, oh wow, that looks grisly. But then I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like in there.”

“Indeed,” Wrodak says. “It is a miracle I still have the capacity to smell. Now, if you change the disposable tip, I am sure you will be allowed to inspect the rest of us.”

Starla looks at the otoscope. She hands it back to Wrodak. “Check me,” she says.

Wrodak flicks off the disposable plastic tip, and takes a replacement from the base of the handle. Then he looks up Starla’s nose, finding everything quite intact. “You are free of Prime’s control as well,” he says.

Starla sheathes her saber. “Sorry about that.”

“That was actually a pretty sane reaction,” Catra says. She steps forward “You know the rest of them; so: hi. I’m Catra.”

“Wow, there’s two of you giants here.”

Catra grins a toothy grin. “I assure you, of the two of us, I’m worse.”

“Yeah. Too bad neither of you are my type.”

Catra blushes. “What?! No! Good grief. Why would you even _say_ something like that!”

Starla just grins. “So, what is she? The ship’s cat?” she asks Adora.

Catra clenches her grip around Starla’s hand, causing the girl to wince. “You’re _funny._ ”

“Catra, be nice,” Adora says, smiling. “Starla, don’t antagonize my crew.”

* * *

As they make the jaunt towards near-Sola interstellar space, Starla avails herself of the facilities. Running water and real food are both in short supply in the Roost.

“I can’t get over just how nice this place smells, and how much space there is!”

They’ve pushed two long tables together in the mess. Glimmer is serving flatbread and a complement of vegetable fillings.

“The Swift Wind can comfortably accommodate fifty personnel, and up to three times that if foregoing amenities and refurbishing the crew quarters with communal sleeping,” Damara says.

“Damn. We were three people in our pressure pod, and that was considered luxurious.”

“Hey, before we begin with the serious,” Bow says. “Starla being here just reminded me of something I thought about back on Antioch; we don’t really have a name for our little group here, aboard the Swift Wind.”

There’s a brief exchanging of looks. Nobody else has given this issue any thought it seems.

“I’d like to put my suggestion forward,” Bow says. “I think we should name ourselves the _Starlight Brigade._ ”

“But we’re barely even a squadron,” Adora notes, “a brigade is a land-forces designation, of like, a thousand soldiers.”

“Why says we’re not going to be a thousand soldiers one day?” Bow asks. “I’m thinking this we’re doing right now might one day set historical precedent for Etheria’s presence in the galaxy.”

“Always with the historical angle,” Glimmer says fondly.

“Okay, vote of acceptance,” Bow says. “Starlight Brigade?”

Catra, Bow, Glimmer, Wrodak, and Starla raise their hands.

“Starla, you’re not an official crew member,” Adora says.

“We’ve still got majority,” Catra says.

“And I’m still _captain,_ ” Adora protests.

“A boring one!” Catra retorts. “Flyboy even named us after She-Ra! That’s an honor!”

“We’re not— fine! Whatever! We can be the Starlight Brigade.”

Bow and Catra high-five.

“Should I make us an insignia?” Glimmer asks.

“ _No!_ No more tomfoolery, we have serious matters to discuss,” Adora says. “Let’s talk about the plan. Everybody voting yes to that?”

There’s a round of nods.

Adora collects herself. “So. We need to get to Etheria. Wrodak’s latest news is that we’re going to run into eleven thousand interceptors when we do; and that number is slated to climb over the next week, as more ships arrive. We had originally planned to turn Swift Wind into something more battle-capable, but that is going to take six months. By then it will be much too late.”

“Well…” Starla says. “If Glory and I could provide a distraction, then—”

“Absolutely not,” Catra says.

Adora looks at her. “Catra—”

“What?!” Catra says. “That’s _suicide._ Are you seriously saying you believe that an oversized bird and one girl with a sword stands a chance against Horde Prime and his _eleven thousand_ battlecraft?”

Adora looks at Starla. “Okay no. I agree. You are not doing that.”

“Why would you even suggest it?” Glimmer asks.

Starla looks away. “I— I don’t know.”

“Death wish,” Catra says. “Starla, why do you want to die so bad?”

Starla looks up at Catra, who is sitting on the table, cross-legged. “I just thought I could _help!_ ”

“As someone who _has_ gone out in a blaze of self-sacrificial glory,” Catra says, pointing to the scar on her chin, “take my advice: don’t. It doesn’t work, and you’ll regret it.”

“If anyone is taking Glory to provide a distraction of last resort, it’ll be _me,_ ” Adora says.

Starla looks over at Adora, sitting in her customary hover chair at the end of the table. “And why _you?_ Aren’t you more important to the resistance than I am?”

“Yes, but I can destroy Horde interceptors.”

Starla blinks. “How?”

Adora summons Parabell, and lets it grow into a spacecraft-killing javelin. “By throwing this.”

“There’s a recording of the whole thing if you want to see,” Catra says. “I watch it sometimes if I need a pick-me-up.”

“You do?” Adora ask, surprised.

“Yeah; whenever I need a reminder that we can actually win this? Watching you take out Horde Prime’s attack spacecraft with rudimentary projectiles is great.”

“Okay,” Starla says. “But only if Glory is up for it. And you better bring them back in one piece.”

Adora nods.

There’s a break in the conversation. Catra uses it to scarf down the rest of her flatbread, and begin rolling her fifth serving.

“Does anyone have an _actual_ plan?” Glimmer asks.

“I might,” Catra says.

All eyes turn to her.

“Damara, when you were escaping from the Velvet Glove, Adora used her starlight to let you escape despite an engine malfunction, right?”

“Correct, you asked me about that already,” Damara says.

“I think I can do something similar, but with my invisibility.”

“You can turn invisible?” Bow asks.

“Yeah,” Catra says. “And I would like to note that I haven’t been using it to prank you all; I’m nice that way.”

“I told you not to,” Adora says.

Catra sticks out her tongue at Adora. “Anyway, it’ll require some testing, but I think I can slip us past Horde Prime’s entire blockade without the need for any fighting.”

“Sounds good,” Adora says. “Get on it ASAP.”

“So, shadow manipulation, invisibility, psychic powers, impossible luck, shapeshifting… Is there anything you _can’t_ do?” Glimmer asks.

“What, Sparkles, you’re not still salty about that card game are you? If I were you, I’d just be glad we didn’t wager anything.”

“Catra, the only reason I’m not calling you a cheater is because _I_ dealt, _and_ shuffled,” Glimmer says.

* * *

Starla and Adora come down into the cargo bay.

“Aw they’re still sleeping,” Starla coos.

Glory is sitting right where they left them.

“Tired after the trip?” Adora suggests.

“They and me both,” Starla says. She heads over to the pod, opening both airlock doors, allowing the space inside to ventilate, before heading inside. Adora stays behind, admiring Glory.

“ _It’s quite the crew you have assembled,_ ” Starla says from inside.

“Thanks, I guess?” Adora asks.

“ _That pilot, Bow, and your sorceress, they’re an item._ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _And am I mistaken or is that crazy techie of yours into the one with the holograms?_ ”

“Entrapta and Damara, yeah. Damara’s my mom, technically.”

“ _Now that you say it, there’s some family resemblance. Isn’t she the ship?_ ”

“Spacecraft, yeah… You’re pretty observant.”

“ _I’m the youngest of three siblings._ ”

Starla emerges with a heavy duffel bag. “And then you and the catgirl?”

“What?” Adora says, flustered. “No. No, no; we’re just childhood friends. She— she just means a lot to me.”

“Uh-huh?”

“I mean it. Back on Etheria, we had a Horde clone who got stranded and decided to build his own version of the Horde. She and I were soldiers in it. I left for the other side, and we were bitter enemies for almost a year.”

“And then you got her back.”

Adora nods.

“Good for you… Are you sure there isn’t some undercurrent of romance between the two of you?” Starla asks.

“I’m sure,” Adora says.

* * *

Catra slinks away in the shadows of the cargo hold, heading back to her quarters via portal.

_I’m sure._

She curls up in the foot-end of their shared bed. She has long since learned how not to cry herself to sleep, so as not to worry Adora.

* * *

“Okay, let’s try it,” Catra says.

She reaches down to the hull of Swift Wind with a hand clad in protective shadow. Closing her eyes, she focuses inwards, and plainly demands the entire ship go unnoticed.

An unseen shimmer spreads through reality.

“ _Okay, we’ve got data!_ ” Damara says. “ _Cloak is holding. No infrared, no visual, no radar, no lidar, no thaumic._ ”

The little swarm of drones out at a mile’s distance, keeping watch, are all blind to them now.

It feels like cupping water in the hand, to hide such a large thing, and soon enough, it spills.

“ _And we’re back. Good job, dear,_ ” Damara says. “ _Let’s keep working on it._ ”

Catra shakes her head. “It’s not going to be better than this. It’s not about practice or power; just as Adora says. I’m coming inside. Recall the drones.”

* * *

“So, spacewalk without a suit,” Adora says, greeting Catra by the airlock. “How was it?”

“Weird.”

Adora nods. “Did you try to will yourself to move?”

Catra nods. “Didn’t work. I had to use my tail.” Catra’s tail elongates for demonstration, becoming a ten foot long dexterous furred fifth limb, curling behind her. It doesn’t move in any way like Entrapta’s arms, which are bound by base physics.

Adora whistles, impressed. “You could use that like a whip in combat, maybe.”

“I’m more thinking choke holds,” Catra says.

They walk the rest of the way back to the control center in silence.

“Don’t be ashamed,” Adora says as they reach the doors. “This is the first time you tried.”

“We both know it’s not about practice,” Catra says, echoing Adora’s own words, regarding Starlight.

“So… Are you afraid of something?”

Catra looks away.

Adora puts a hand on her shoulder. “Catra, I believe in you. You’re the bravest person I know.”

Catra looks at Adora’s smiling face, and warmth rises to her cheeks. “Let’s,” she says, nodding to the doors. “I’ll give it another go from the inside.”

They head in, where the others are waiting.

“That was something else,” Starla says. “You looked absolutely terrifying, out there.”

Catra smiles a little, despite herself. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Owl-girl.”

“A nickname?” Starla says. “Does that mean I’m part of the family already?”

Catra makes a rude gesture in return, then walks up to the center console before the wall screen. “Flyboy,” she says. “If I can hold it this time, we’re making our approach. I’m not sure I can do three.”

Bow and Wrodak, occupying the pilot and gunner positions, both give her a thumb’s up.

“Is Glory ready in case things go bad?” Adora asks Starla.

Starla answers with a nod.

Adora pats Catra on the shoulder. “Knock ’em dead, Cat,” she says, then turns and heads to the Captain’s chair, Damara standing by it’s side.

Catra looks out the wall screen, at the pinprick of light she knows is Sola. Their home.

 _All on me to get us there,_ she thinks. She looks back over her shoulder one last time, at Adora.

Adora gives her a thumbs-up.

The truth she realized last night, is that she loves Adora. She loves Adora terribly, and wants her in the worst ways; the very ways that has gotten her hurt at the hands of Double Trouble; the way that broke Scorpia’s resolve so bad she turned coat.

All Catra’s love does, is hurt people.

And she loves Adora with the pathetic and smoldering passion of a girl who knows when a woman is out of her league.

And it is that love which she pours into her darkness. Because that is what it is. Not shadow. Darkness.

“ _For the Vengeance of Krytis, Darkness is Mine to Command,_ ” she says, putting a hand on the console.

“We’re cloaked,” Damara says.

“Activating portal engine,” Bow says.

The view outside the craft warps and twists, being replaced by a rainbow light show of refractions and diffractions.

“Even the portal engine signature is hidden,” Damara says, as she processes the final burst of telemetry from the drone they have left behind. “If our arrival is hidden as well, we could very well make it to the planet’s surface undetected.”

“You’re doing great, Cat,” Adora says.

“Yeah,” Catra says, “now I just have to keep it up for, what… Ten more minutes?”

“Twelve,” Damara says.

“So… A little quiet would be nice,” Catra says, and closes her eyes.

* * *

It is mentally exhausting to hold up the cloak, and Catra’s thoughts begin drifting. As luck would have it they happen to drift back to the conversation she had with the long dead Emperor who was Melog before her, specifically the idea that she should ‘break the rules.’

Who’s to say she has to channel this cloaking magic? The Swift Wind already has adaptive camouflage on the hull and a heat sink that can obscure it’s heat signature somewhat. Couldn’t her invisibility just… Inhabit those systems?

She dips deep into the darkness, and wills it so.

Then she gingerly lets go of the front console, and steps back.

“Catra what’s going on?”

“Nothing. The cloak is holding,” Catra says. “Damara could you run diagnostics on the adaptive camouflage system for me, see if you notice any anomalies? And the internal heat sinks?”

Damara looks aside for a moment. “What did you do to my ship, Catra?”

“I… Gave you a gift of invisibility,” Catra says.

“Catra, I don’t think now is a good time to be experimenting,” Adora says.

Catra turns and looks at Adora. “Just, trust me on this one,” she says. “I… I have a good feeling about this one.”

Three tense minutes pass, before Damara says anything more: “I think she’s right. Preliminary testing shows there’s… An anomalous effect. There’s some kind of buffering effect on the portal engine rebound-absorption coils, and the thermodynamic efficiency of the hull refrigeration suggest we might be able to cool the hull to the temperature of liquid helium. Even the adaptive camouflage patterning has been altered and seem to be capable of inwardly holographic projection… And there’s spell patterns engraved on the inside of the outer hull — at first blush sigils of silence and misdirection…”

“Most of that doesn’t sound like true _invisibility_ to me,” Adora says. “I was a lot more comfortable when Catra was using her powers to hide us.”

“Ah,” Wrodak says, “but cooling the hull alone will let us slip by unnoticed. We do not need full invisibility.”

Adora looks at him. “Explain.”

“Why, the most efficient and reliable way to detect a spacecraft is to look for its heat. Specifically the heat radiation all ships give off; compared to empty space, a spacecraft at room temperature is like a shining beacon. If Catra’s power can cool the hull down to such a temperature that its heat radiation is akin to that of empty space; we will be quite invisible.”

“Are you sure? If I understand correctly, they could spot us by looking out the window.”

“Horde interceptors have no windows; they represent a structural weak point. Evading IR telemetry will be at least 99% effective at avoiding detection,” Wrodak says.

“And even then, we have the active camouflage,” Damara says. “It only covers visual, but our radar misdirection systems are state of the art, even if Catra didn’t touch it.”

Adora looks at Catra.

Catra gives a nod.

“All right. Proceed as planned. Bow, be ready to take evasive action if we’re spotted.”

* * *

They drop into real space — with no detectable portal engine signature — and begin a burn to catch an intercept trajectory with Etheria. Swift Wind’s telescopes scan the sky finding thousands of enemy craft right off the bat. None of them are reacting to their presence.

“Hull temperature is steady at ten degrees above above absolute zero,” Damara says.

“We’re really invisible,” Bow notes, awestruck.

“See?” Catra says, “and it’s permanent too.”

“Good job, Catra,” Damara says, “and thank you for the generous upgrade.” She looks over at Entrapta, who is barely containing her curiosity. “There will be a time and place for learning just how it works,” she says with a smile and a wink.

Entrapta sighs, looking longingly at Damara. “Oh I’d _love_ to take you apart right here and now, and just figure it _all_ out. One. System. At. A. Time.” she says with the sultry tone of voice others use to express a desire to remove articles of clothing from their partner’s person in a sexual fashion.

“Get a _hangar_ , you two,” Bow says dryly.

Catra’s suppressed giggle turns into a guffaw.

“I can’t believe we’re just flying straight through this blockade you’ve spent the last week figuring out how to either sneak past or fight our way though,” Starla says.

“Damara, if you can take your eyes off your mechanic for a moment,” Bow says, “we need an aerodynamic insertion without re-entry signature; I can’t do that by hand.”

* * *

Damara handles the precise maneuver of inserting them into atmospheric flight without ever reaching re-entry velocities. Swift Wind smoothly transitions to reaction-based propulsion and lift, and Bow takes them down to a comfortable cruising altitude.

The improved adaptive camouflage projects onto the hull, a hologram of the sky behind the Swift Wind — or the ground below, seen from above — rendering it _truly_ invisible from every angle.

“It feels good to be back,” Glimmer notes. “I’ve _really_ missed my Runestone.”

“What about you, Entrapta?” Adora asks. “Can you feel your Runestone?”

“Oh, definitely,” Entrapta says. “I mean, not that I’m all that accustomed to it, but yeah, it is definitely back.”

“Well,” Adora says, “seeing as we’re back…” She takes out her communicator. “Call… Who do we call?”

Catra shakes her head. “Speaking as your analyst, I don’t think it’ll be a good idea to call ahead.”

Adora looks at her. “Why?”

“Horde Prime has the known capacity to compromise people in hard-to-detect ways. We don’t know the full extent of sanitization, but baseline we should assume the worst and operate under maximal information hygiene.”

Adora frowns. “I don’t like the sound of that, but good call. Where do we land, then?”

“Get me a globe.”

“Pardon?”

“A globe of Etheria,” Catra says, “a physical one. Get me one. Sparkles, you’re good with the fabricator?”

Glimmer takes out her communicator and queues up one for fabrication; just a hollow plastic shell.

A minute later, Emily comes waddling on three legs with it, held in two tentacle arms, handing the melon-sized sphere to Catra.

“All right, now I just need the artificial gravity disabled for this in particular — wait, shit, we’re in atmosphere now, gravity is back, isn’t it?”

Glimmer walks over to Catra and casts a weightlessness spell on the globe.

“Thanks, Sparkles.”

Catra spins it, and it rotates smoothly. “Hm. Needs more chaos. Anybody got some tape?”

Entrapta tosses Catra a roll of canvas tape.

Carefully Catra adds a few pieces of tape to the thin plastic shall, occluding some unimportant bits of ocean, lopsiding the weight distribution.

She gives it another spin, and it wobbles wonderfully.

Catra takes out a marker pen, puts a hand over her eyes, and gently taps the spinning globe, blind. Then she grabs the globe out of the air and looks it over for the mark. “Ah. I know where we should land.”

“Did… Did you just pick us a landing spot at _random?_ ” Adora asks.

Catra turns the globe to show where the mark landed. “Yeah. And wouldn’t you know it? The globe says we should land by the Crystal Castle in the Whispering Woods.”

Adora blinks. “… What?”

“Sparkles, you do card divinations, tell her how this works.”

“Catra, I have no idea what you just did,” Glimmer says.

Catra rolls her eyes. “Look. I think I deserve some credit for permanently turning the Swift Wind into the stealthiest spacecraft in the universe. Can you just trust me on this?”

Adora looks around the room searching for some support. Starla is wondrously fascinated by Catra’s display, Entrapta is scribbling down some notes, muttering to herself about rotational velocities, while Damara is looking over her shoulder. Bow is at the helm, and has his eyes on the sky, as he should, and Wrodak as co-pilot has spared at least a side-glance for Catra’s antics.

“Right. Yeah. Sure. Why not,” Adora says, leaning back in bewilderment. “Bow, land us by Dagon Rock.”

* * *

Their arrival over the treetops doesn’t even scare the birds. Last time Bow flew this low over the Whispering Woods, he roused literal thousands of them to take flight in fear.

“All right,” Adora says. “Let’s suit up, and take a look around. Any idea _what_ we’re going to find out there, Cat?”

“None, what so ever,” Catra says with a smile.

“Right. Fuck.”

Adora gets up, and they all file in behind her, as she heads to the changing rooms and the pylon elevators.

There, they each suit up. Adora just summons Parabell and sheathes it in Stella Nova, then unfolds the cloak from her collar.

Catra holsters a heavy-caliber Zev pistol on her chest, a grenade launcher on the small of her back, and fills the inner pockets of her duster with grenades.

Glimmer summons her staff, and giggles like a schoolgirl over it. Wrodak puts a Toha-Zev rifle on his back. Mercifully she and Wrodak both turn their hazard suits over to Bow’s camouflage pattern rather than their respective lilac and pink. Both of them bring a Yala-Zev on their hip.

Bow has his bow, and his precision rifle, as always.

Starla has her saber, and has borrowed a Zev support automatic rifle, and matching sidearm from the Swift Wind’s armoury for the occasion.

Entrapta is bringing nothing except her six cubic feet of toolbox, an exoskeleton suit that can lift a tank, with four back-mounted compliant-robotics tentacle arms each more than strong enough to carry a grown man. No weapons, but she does have a personal shield projector she began work on after first witnessing Stella Nova protecting the Swift Wind.

Damara takes remote control of their drone complement, adding a set of small spherical drone with a hologram projectors for social telepresence.

The elevator is barely big enough for all of them at once.

“Tempting as it might be to smell the flowers, I’m going to say we keep visors down,” Catra says. “Might be sanitizing wasps out there.”

The doors open to the meadows before the colonnade courtyard carved into the base of Dagon Rock.

Damara’s nimble scout drones zip out, while they file out of the elevator.

Above them, the Swift Wind is completely invisible. The elevator door looks like a portal to another world; appearing in the middle of thin air.

“Stay low,” Adora says. Bow takes front, and leads them single file, guns holstered, through the treeline. The two heavy combat drones take rear guard.

“ _No signs of enemy presence in area sweep,_ ” Damara reports.

They cross the open space from the dense underbrush to the bare face of Dagon Rock, to group up behind the corner before the courtyard, for cover.

“All right, let’s go,” he says.

They move into the courtyard, in a run, keeping low, and reach about halfway there before getting intercepted.

From a crack in the rock above emerges a gigantic beast, eight legs on a serpentine body, a cone-shaped head with twelve eyes dotting the circumference of its base and the point of it split into a four-part jaw.

“Perfuma?” Adora says.

“ _Don’t move!_ ”

All of them turn to see a person in an eight foot tall armor suit, colored the same as the smooth-hewn stone walls; a niche in the wall betrays their hiding method. They are pointing both arms at Adora and the crew; the armor suit has a rather menacing bulk to its forearms, and selection of muzzle-like holes pointed at them.

“Is that Frosta?” Bow asks.

The riddle-gate opens, revealing Netossa in a First-Ones’ armor suit with clear visor.

With a gesture, her tethers spring forth, ensnaring all of them on wrist and ankle, connecting to the ground, and pulling everyone to their knees.

“Netossa!” Adora says. “It’s us!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Netossa says. She takes out an otoscope. “We’ll see about that.”

“ _Hey, that one’s a Horde clone!_ ” Frosta says, pointing at Wrodak.

Netossa draws a Zev pistol. “All right, we’ll kill him and check the rest.”

“Netossa,” Adora says. “Wrodak is on our side. Please just check us for bugs; we’re not sanitized. I swear, if you try to hurt him, I’m going to have to stop you.”

A tether ties itself around Adora’s forehead and pulls her head back. Netossa shoves the otoscope in Adora’s nose, and looks.

“ _Well?_ ” Frosta asks.

“She’s clean.”

Netossa begins moving towards Bow, and Adora lets Parabell spring to life to severs the tethers binding Adora to the ground. She stands. “Not so fast. You first.”

Frosta pivots to point her guns at Adora.

Netossa locks eyes with Adora for a tense moment, then changes the cap on the otoscope and hands it to Adora. Then she flips her visor up.

She has to bend down to get an angle. “You’re clean too. I can vouch for the others.”

“We’re not running some amateur operation here, Adora. I’m going to have to check everyone,” Netossa says.

“Then we’ll have to check Frosta and Perfuma,” Adora replies. “Check Entrapta first —” she points “— she’s better with an otoscope.”

The giant plant monster deposits Perfuma on the ground with a long green tongue, then crawls back in the crack above. Frosta flips up the menacing helm on the armor suit.

“Visors up, everyone,” Adora says.

Netossa goes to check Entrapta, and then the rest of the Swift Wind’s crew — the _Starlight Brigade._ Entrapta checks Frosta and Perfuma.

The tethers dissolve at Netossa’s command.

“All right, we’re all clear,” Netossa says. “Sorry, procedure is there for a reason. Come on iside.” Her demeanor is one of strength, but the tiredness is evident in her voice.

She heads up to the doors, and they open without the password.

“Hey, isn’t that feliform that Horde General?” Frosta asks.

“Inside, Frosta,” Netossa says.

They all file into the corridor, and the door closes behind them.

“You couldn’t have come at a worse time,” Netossa says.

“What’s going on?” Adora asks.

Netossa just shakes her head. “Lonnie can give you the full picture.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the fifth book.
> 
> Stay tuned for the sixth and final one.
> 
> Please leave kudos and comment.


	21. One Last Time, Reader...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Horde descends from a broken sky.
> 
> The resistance rises from the artificial underworld.
> 
> All worlds hang in the balance.
> 
> Two girls carry the fate of the universe.

#  [We Can Do Good and That Must Be Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652577/chapters/70236657)

...

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Adora says to the minotaur. “I’m Adora, She-Ra.”

“Asterion of Candila, King; formerly anyway,” the man says in a deep bass register.

They shake hands.

Adora thinks for a moment. “Peftasteri’s husband?”

“The same.”

“How are things on the continent of Cranea?”

“Candila has fallen; its throne now occupied by Meteora the usurper, a sworn servant of Prime. A day after you left, Prime began his full scale invasion, and she turned to him almost immediately, declaring herself rightful queen. My wife gathered loyalists, including virtually all of my clansmen, and stormed the palace. Meteora ripped my wife’s powers away with a dark spell, and left her a shell of her former self, then proceeded to use the singular power of the Flame Core to decimate my sworn brothers and sisters. Candila has the highest estimated rate of sanitization cases per capita. So in a word: horrible.”

Adora pales.

“You will find that almost everyone here has loved ones who have been sanitized into Prime’s servitude.”

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like _Kindness is a Choice_ please read on in the next installment in the epic fanfic series _World War Etheria._


End file.
